Robert Ford’s poetry has appeared in print and online publications in the UK, US, and elsewhere, including The Interpreter’s House, Brittle Star, Butcher’s Dog, and San Pedro River Review. More of his work can be found at https://wezzlehead.wordpress.com/
We bury our fathers
because someone must,
and if not us, the sky and its crows.
We find ourselves sown into the same soil.
We wear their inherited sternness,
their over-cleaned suits that
never fit us better than this.
Our naked heads cling to the family hair,
while their confident fingers insist on
still knotting our ties, wiping our noses.
At the entrance to the graveyard,
the old tree weeps without a sound.
A relentless wind chases through it.
We have learned to do silence like men,
to smile around the solemnity of its edges.
But the boys within are ghosting around,
lambs looking for a shepherd,
still needing to be told they’re doing this –
and everything else – well enough for now.