Monday, July 16, 2012


My hands clench tight
to the steering wheel.
I am perhaps eighteen years old.
My father sits beside me, in
the passenger seat,
his hands rolling, perhaps,
a cigarette, calmly,
with his familiar skill;
he watches me, watches
where the road ahead
leads into a pale sky
above the English hills.
He asks me, Why
are your hands so tight,
you see how white
your knuckles are? 
And now, today,
so many years gone by,
still there are times
I am surprised to wake
at night and find my hands
clenched into fists... 
And once again
the memoryreturns
today, in meditation,
my father long since
dead: I note the tension
in my hands, breathe in,
and send releasing
energy. They tell me
I hold on so tight
for fear of what might
be, if I let go.

1 comment:

Graham said...

This... is brilliant!!