The watch
I mistook a tree for my father.
Listen. I travelled to his house. I worked.
After, we drank.
The pub glowed, he shed years, I matured.
He bore me home, I locked up, lay firmly
down
How was I caught so far off, so late for
the watch?
In his cot, thunder, not quite hearing his
words.
At dawn, in my z-bed, shaken, my corner eye
Saw a risen man
through the window at some early task
head inclined to carrying arms. Then
I mistook him. It was the plum tree
predating us all,
moving to the weather, which had turned.
James Bullion
James Bullion
