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The August poem:
Grandfather
I met him only once – an old man came to tea.
Later my mother said: That was your grandpa.
He passed over my life like a shadow.
I’d thought he was dead, but he was a shame:
a poacher – bone-idle – lapsed Catholic!
Down the years tell-tales glinted like snares.
I imagined him in woods,
the moon glimpsing his gun,
a bloodied pheasant and a tickled trout
worrying his pockets.
His bride wept to her priest
on the eve of their wedding:
Father, I just can’t do it.
Do it for God my child,
an Irish virgin of thirty-eight.
He never thawed her,
but stayed inside her long enough
to sire five souls, the last still-born
and white as communion bread.
Then he left for another woman,
gave her trinkets in return for love.
And when he died the poacher’s woman had:
a plot of land, a caravan, a feather bed
and candles to fire her brooch.
The June poem:
Daughter of the Farm – 1980
‘Passionate fear of pity is also pity.’ Robin Skelton.
The family had a saying: Honest as a collie.
Reared to believe that it’s the sons who count,
only boys are handsome, useful, inherit,
the boys, only the boys, the boys…
She grew up to defy them, went to Oxford,
fell for her female tutor, never declared;
played the piano, painted exquisite flowers,
took a first-class honours, worked as a typist.
And there she was at eighty looking back,
aloof as a duchess, witty; treating me
like a servant, which I was willing to be.
Honest as a collie: and indeed she was,
shepherding her memories, keeping watch
for any hint of pity as her words came sheaved
in sadness for the love that passed her by.
Put down for not working the land
and planting more boys.
The March poem:
Old Tree
My feet like hedgehogs snuffle in frozen leaves;
winter controls the garden – sparks there unopposed.
The tree surgeon speaks of my tree as his own father;
of wounds and healing, of tender, bark-strong growth
and elbow-stress from careless youthful work.
This fellow bears too much weight, his heart will break,
he’s an old man now but still with good life left.
We will save him, grant him a few more summer years.
The stars and moon watch over my tree at night;
we are rooted in earth but always reaching up.
Gerard lives in Aberdeen. He is the Scottish Review’s Makar and contributes a poem each month. Publications include: ‘Failing Light’ – Embers Handpress and ‘Of Love and Water’ – Koo Press/Malfranteaux Concepts
