Friday, 15 July 2011

The Market Stall

(seventh moment)

He looked over the junk table,

Expert eyes that built towns,

Expert eyes that marked buttress and gable

Not seeing just looking over.

He shifted his feet, picked a device

"How much?"

"Why ask ? You can’t pay the price."

He looks over the table still.

In the old days he was a picture

Black haired hazel eyed wonder

That soothed the ears of many hopes

Pride of breeding and virtue.

The tatty wind warmer hides

The spine bend of the man once here

The great weir worn from the tides

In the spit drizzle of the October sheer.

On reflection.

I'm sorry father, that when you were alone

I could not be there to stop the joy slipping

Like your seemingly solid soul

That winter took away from me

I'm sorry I did not forget my anger

And you fell, without your hands

Without your purpose

Aimless to yourself, useless to others.

I'm sorry father, come back to me,

Let me hear your laughter again

Fuzzy and bright in African grasses

Let me pass some warmth into your bones.

By Ali. A. Naqvi

Note: This was originally written a long time ago which would place it around the turn of the millennium as far as i can remember. This means it's about 7 years to 8 years earlier than the rest of the work in the cycle.

The second part which starts "on reflection" feels like a key change in the poem. I did that simply becuase, at the time, my father was ill and it was how I felt. I have noticed some of the sentiments could have been repeated after he passed away. This duality made me include the whole poem in the Twelve Moments cycle.

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