20200114.0430

I have stood outside where I grew up
Seen across the fence and through the window
Watched as what would have been a bough grown strong
And heavy with sweet fruit, abundant seed
Bent and broken and bared of its bark
Become a bludgeon to leave bruises that never heal
Should I look to my own hand
Would I find it clasps a cudgel
Its grain darkened from the oil of a grip long held on it
And grime not shared with Ellen Terry's Sargent role
But no more subject to being scrubbed away
The line where once the branch grew straight and true
Marred and dented from where it has swung
And where its swings have stopped too suddenly?
What marks have I left on flesh
As yet otherwise unblemished
Whether with purpose to cause pain or
Idly waving about, not bothering to check my backswing
Or, indeed, what lies before me,
Seen no more than empty air?