A Poem by Brendan

Had a sudden pang of nostalgia for my dead grandfather.


In the tower

The clock has stopped

Night settles over the world

Rain slices from the heavens

And wind screams down the streets

Bending trees over backwards.

I watch from behind the clock’s pale face

And see a bird frozen in flight.


My grandfather’s ghost drifts languidly

Between the minute and hour hands;

My grandfather who read to me and

Loved me and let me smoke his pipe.

My grandfather who died.

Papa, I cry.


Poor poor bird,

He mutters to himself,

Shaking his head in sympathy.


Before packing his pipe with fragrant tobacco

And a stained thumb,

He cleans his glasses of smoke and ash.


Standing there with my grandfather I realize that

Nothing has changed.


The magician casts his spell

With a flourish of a wand that looks like a clock hand.

The wind fills the sails of dead memories

As they crest on an ocean of longing.

My grandfather floats at my shoulder

Together we watch the bird fly backwards

Watch the years rewind.

© 2008 Brendan

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Added on November 30, 2008



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