Great-Grandad Morgan was tall
like Nick Drake.
He spoke from his throat, his mouth
a scissure, a rented malaise of
deep hums, which
I struggled to understand, yet
sat by his long knees, as he
sat by himself, occasionally
patting me like a dog or a thought
he’d perhaps lost, then found again.
Hours would go by, him humming,
me waging war with pegs and
pipe-cleaners, in and around
his immaculate brogues
that he kept by his feet
always “toosore” for hell
or for leather.
Poetry Forum
A friendly, well established poetic community for both aspiring and seasoned writers of poetry.