GRANDSON
(for Oscar)
I sit on the sofa beside
My one-year-old grandson
Watching midsummer showers
Speckle the window pane
His warm hand in mine
I think of Kavanagh’s poem
‘Every old man I see’
And know I’m one of them
I show my face on the mobile
To the offspring of my son
And then show him his own.
He slips my hand and is gone
Taking me through the rigours
of a mad merry-go-round
He’s a yacht out on the bay
I’m a hulk that’s run aground
But the foc’s’le of the spirit
on the wreckage of my hope
still boasts a live transmitter
towards which my fingers grope
And from perdition’s shell
Till the channel disconnects
I’ll sing him songs of culture
and its enlightened texts.
Copyright Ciaran O'Driscoll 2022
