Was mother’s hand not as gentle,
Father’s eye not so constant?
or resentment — and resentment of what, my fondness
for following wherever you tread?
Was the ground beneath your feet
The sky above your head, a gift
or to protect?
Did the rain whisper into the canals of your ear?
Did the air sweep clear thoughts away in the wind?
And sunshine, what of that?
Remember when we lay on the sand, our eyes
shaded by hands, our eyes trying to fathom
the blue beneath the blue?
Here I lie
a ditch now home,
my blood seeping like red ants across the ground
and I feel my heart
stumbling towards silence.
are filled with moments of you
for I never saw the violence coming
until after it had arrived
and the way your eyes turned hard as stone
and so brother, oh brother,
here I lie
and there you go
your shadow passing across my face
like a distant thought…
I remember as a babe
I held your finger and never thought to let go
you always wished to.