My Father’s Tears

Mother’s tears celebrated in lute and lyre
Not so my poor father’s, no less viscous
Father’s tears are a fit subject for poetry
Unhonoured in his very child’s early prattle,
They glisten like sweat, even in early spring
A nuisance to be wiped to chirp again
Father’s tears, unshed and shed
At prosaic spots, far from the din of poets
Watching them down the wrinkled paths,
On adamant clocks late at night
Feeling yet the wet of his daughter’s kiss
Or his son’s dart – he didn’t ask to be born.

(2004)