The Hutch

I’ve been writing a lot about childhood lately. Luckily I had a blissful time growing up on the north side of Cork city in Ireland. I’m thinking of calling my next book of poems ‘North Side Pastoral’. I think many poets and authors write a lot about their childhood as those memories die hardest.

This is a memory of my father that I shaped into a poem. Hope you like it. The ending is a bit weak I think but, for me, there comes a time with every poem when you must just stop and put down the pen.

The Hutch

By David Jordan

 

The Hutch

 

All day long he laboured and

Cursed,

His hands letting him down.

 

In the end

He cobbled together a

Shoddy, temporary house

Inside of which

The rabbit crunched on his

Lettuce contentedly.

We watched in silence for a while

And then my father began to

Laugh quietly.

For he was a quiet man and

Humourous

Though he rarely laughed and

Always surpressed his smile.

 

The next day

He built a fine hutch

In no time,

His hands returned to form

Though there was no more laughter.

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s