Dinner Plate

For Fathers’ Day

Through my mind’s eye, the one that cannot, will not cry,

I can still see the fine, life worn, war torn lines in your face.

Each and every crack, a river flowing with untold pain.

Silent slivers and creeks, scarred like wind dried, ice split cheeks,

Inlets flowing not out, they no release, no forgiving sea, no harbour of peace.

Fissured too, the hands that moulded your clay, potters of life,

Their iron oxide bloodlines, long timelines tracing all too familiar fractures.

Hard fired to encase, then hard-wired to replace the enamel of love,

From that kiln you were cast, generations of sediment laid then furnace blast.

Born to be hard, harder than the rest, at being hard you were the best.

Now the table is bare, no seat is set, no throne cum chair,

Awaits you being set down, into your place, so large this space.

Here now a vacuum, quiet and cold like an abandoned kitchen in winter,

No steaming gravy-soaked Sunday roast can sate this starved and starving ghost,

Compassion is the dish best served, to forgive and learn, to heal the cracks and not look back.

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