Anthology of dreams (drownedinwords) wrote, @ 2004-11-05 19:36:00

Ancestor

For my Grandfather, wherever he is.

I'd slept more heavily that night.

When I was young, and thought
that he would live forever
we would play chess

Every Sunday. My back
pressed against the wall
for want of a chair.

He taught me how we move;
which pieces blindly forwards,
which protect, or jump,
which lie in wait forever

blind like justice
until a future you hadn't planned for
draws them out
as many spaces as they like.

He'd never cheat.
At least, not in my memory.
Never move a piece of mine.
He was all principle. A man
of honour

Who taught me
to be proud
and never to leave
my bishop unprotected.

He'd never switch his pieces over
Or call a game unwon.

His face was a love like the mountains.
I learned to read in his tapping fingers,
Or the gentle sighs as I
touched each piece in turn,
Which way I'd go.

Perhaps unrealistic
to expect an infant
to be victor.

I still hear him sighing,
tapping,
there is still his face
from a child's eyes
dragging me upright,
stretching all the muscles which sagged
when I forgot how to castle.

I had slept so well
and I woke with him
ringing in my ears,
carrying the pieces through the door.

I knew I dreamt because he grinned
like the clearing of a glass,
showing all the things I'd never hear him say.

I'd never hear, but as I woke
I saw his fingers on the chair
cease tapping.