grandfather by the river

pilot of unruly wind,
he spoke to it. Cold ribs

of a bench the colour
of cigarette paper and dry cement
leaning against the root of his spine.

No lip
will bride him the way
the lip of the water peels
away from his sight, his listening.

Faint veil
of borealis over desert
shores his memory. He thinks
his heart is neither starved
nor overfed. A young

cadet is beginning to wake
inside of him, shy as if
no orchestra of
blueprinted victory
flowered
its brass foliage.

Only a heron’s lifespan
of silent migration
is cresting a white flag
onto the skin of his fingertips.

He never prayed for this
and he prayed for me.

grandfather by the river

Ben Porter

Swanley, United Kingdom

  • Artist
    Notes
  • Artwork Comments 2

Artist's Description

poem for the day, inspired by some Chinese poems I have been revisiting.

Artwork Comments

  • Cynthia Lund Torroll
  • S .
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desktop tablet-landscape content-width tablet-portrait workstream-4-across phone-landscape phone-portrait

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