The Butterfly Father

monarchs_bnnr

Walking,
you are flint-edged,
mastiff-shouldered.
Your feet scrape yielding carpet
before suddenly, continually
bearing full weight.

Running,
you are lighter, enduring,
but you still take the road
by force, challenge
the wind.

You might have torn
your way into life:
like roots
cracking concrete,
forcing doors.

But when you hold
snowflake daughters
your hands are
the gentle air of
fragile wings,

you slip
your covert chrysalis
and are once more
the butterfly father,
at home in this breath
of benevolence,

borrowing life from
their breathing.

[for Stuart MacLeod]

 

 

Single Malt Friend

whisper

Maybe the angels
gathered handfuls of grain
to chew
into liquid,
and whispered a
peaty secret into
mortal ears.

We never felt the angel’s whispers,
but we do the best we can:
shunning the blended
for this golden saliva
turning to air.

Down in the valley
of Sandy Hill,
(down by the riverside)
you’ll find my single malt friend:

grinning,
already boasting
over latest acquisitions,
eyebrows arching
with forgotten whispers,

searching for secrets.

[for Seymour Mayne]