DREAM POEM ONE
-
Des Dillon (U.K.)
I
went to my father's van
and
was handing out Stanley knives,
hammers,
bottles of Glenmorangie
and
lager tins to these strangers.
These
are the things I associate with
my
father. Joiners tools and whisky.
Oil
paints, dumbbells and fists.
The
strangers had danger hung
over
them like a dark net curtain.
A
veil.
But
nothing we, me and my father
and
long dead brother, couldn't handle.
Anyway
they weren't there to do us harm.
They
were there to help our hurry or bury
or
carry things away from this
unnamed
oncoming doom.
And
there was a building to be cleared out too,
like
a cross between a working man's
club
and our childhood home.
And
a purgatorial sense we'd never get it finished.
"We'll
never get this finished."
My
father said. And though we knew
that
to be true we kept on going.
It
was the right thing to do.