Visiting Poem by David Cooke

for my grandfather

When I first came on a visit
to your limewashed house
- a clean-kneed child from town -
your two great fists

impressed me, for they
were ponderous chunks
of granite, notched
carelessly for fingers

and which, at your own willed
creation, you had torn
from the heart of the land.
Yes, I knew then how

you had risen and, separate,
must have kept on walking.
I was almost frightened
to be your friend, but still

am running so breathlessly
beside you as you stride
onwards, the castle of yourself,
across rough fields

of thistle and clover.
And the dogs are running
before us, and our laughter
creates again a flawless sky.