The blackthorn was his father's,
a piece of Ireland
that the old man could still get his hands around
even as his hands grew weak,
refused to hold. My father
never knew Ireland;
when he gripped the walking stick
it was something else he was holding on to.
I watched my father
get old; he would stare at his hand
and open and close his fist,
try to fight the arthritis.
By then he had lost the stick,
and he could have used it
to work his grip, to beat
at the hard knot that was tying him up.
When he died he was laid in the ground
only a few feet from his father,
while in Ireland the sturdy blackthorns
were defying that sad land
and bursting with white blossoms.
Read this poem in other languages
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
Comments about this poem (The Blackthorn by Louis McKee )
The Road Not Taken
If You Forget Me
Still I Rise
Edgar Allan Poe
Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening
I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings
William Ernest Henley
- Yesterday, Tony Adah
- Thoughts Bloom, RoseAnn V. Shawiak
- Why Do People Sometimes Self Suicides?, Terence G. Craddock
- I Hate You, Hafeni Nghidinua
- Form matters, douglas scotney
- Inner Composition, RoseAnn V. Shawiak
- Firefly, John Shea
- Tranquil Anticipation, RoseAnn V. Shawiak
- साना हाबबाय, Ronjoy Brahma
- Men And Women, Matthias Pantaleon