My grandfather
moves in a world
not only without me
but without my father
(we the generations yet to be) .
It is Oct.1903.
My grandfather now
unknown to us
cannot conceive of our existence
these our times
and of how
all his realness
his crossing now
this stream
his thoughts...his dreams
the sick calf in his arms
the biting of this bitter wind
will be
only this imagined
half forgotten telling
by someone
he has never known
written upon
an October wind
that speaks
to both of us.
Dónall Dempsey
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/october-1903-for-lyn/
