Today,
the fading fibre of my father
heavy-makes my heart.
And there is more.
The thick, malignant possibility
of a draining democracy;
the stoppers all are out.
Circles more and more of politicians’ speech
and less of limbless children,
mothers’ gasping grief
and fathers’ dust-covered digging
with no end.
We hear breaking news that is broken,
thin,
repetitive.
It is hoped, by some, perhaps,
manageable.
But what I want is this
the improbable courage of love
and remembrance,
the reach for what is best in us,
the gift,
the grace,
the sweet dilution of resentment.
The courage of hope
whatever comes.
Catherine Smith © 2024
