With the summer sky of Devon in his eyes, just as blue,
and cloudy, he steps into the bramble (careful
not to wander away) mindful that he must not slip
(cannot falter)
on this wet ground, he must not break
his hip, again. A branch catches on his ancient cable knit,
pale wool on a frail body that no longer feels
the heat,
wool that could not shield his body from cold
winds, seas drenching skin, night air, cold and thin,
so cold (there's no coal -three to a bed,
it's cold upstairs).
He's wandered deep into the thicket. He uncovers more
fruit for the child playing in the wind off the sea,
swept over cliffs, a harmless shore-breeze (fishing seas whipped
onto the deck)
from this channel (not the far away channel, blast
of sea-rain water, or on the waters and seen
when the sea was torn...) Wandering through the thorns
that catch his worn skin
like barbed wire (tipped with - ) blackberries, hiding
under leaves that scratch his hands:
cold- thickened,
work-knuckled,
trawl-strengthened,
duty-scarred,
(caress- softened,
baby-warmed)
hands that do not eat
as he picks berries for the child playing in the grass.
He listens for her laughs, her high voice,
but ears are deafened by time
(too many times,
shattered by explosions) too deaf to know laughing
from crying (of hungry-bellied little ones, or the women
when the small boat failed to come in -
No -
not when the larger one sailed) the little ones must not go
without. He has crossed the thicket, his big hands
stained red. As the clouds thicken, so does the light
fade
in his eyes, watching the Devon sky,
just as cloudy, holding a bowl, to feed a child
(which child now?) who sees. She stops her play and
she runs to him,
takes his bowl, and smiles at the sweetness of them.
Her belly will be filled with sweet grandad's berries,
this pale-haired child with his blue eyes, who will not feel hunger
in her sleep.
