By Robert Wylie
The same thin, parsimonious wind
Which, now, and then blows against me,
Blew against the small, wet-sailed boat
Bobbing on the choppy water.
The gloves I wore,
Most of the fingers
Bitten-away in nervous times,
Were soaked by the beetle-infested pond.
My father smiled from across the water,
Coaxing me to take an interest in what
Was supposed to be my pleasure,
‘I’ll do something with the rigging
When I get the boat in’, he cried.
The cold wind blew his heavy sadness
Towards me, – I could not really see
His eyes, but I knew
That they threatened tears.
The other dabblers in watery mysteries
Were lifting their dreams from the pond
And were making their way home.
Rigging, set to catch the wind, the little
Boat cocked it’s way across the watery grain.
‘Hey, how’s that? ‘ my father called,
Happier now that he had shown his love
In his dexterity.