When first he saw the growing stick
my father was a youngish man
he got a spade and dug it out,
then cut it – for to fit his hand.
He took it home to straighten it
and eyed it through – till it was good
his penknife carved the handle out
his hard hands polished up the wood.
For twenty years he carried it,
on Sunday walks and evening strolls
for twenty more it carried him,
as time slipped by – and he grew old.
The last few years spent by his side,
his walks now – from the chair to bed
until, in time, like all God’s things
the stick laid down – and he was dead.
I took it home to ease my grief
and bring back cherished memories
the handle almost fit my hand
and now it walked the roads with me.
Then time moved on, and life’s demands
were many, so my walks were gone
for years it slumbered – lost from sight
and I forgot it. I moved on.
One day my son passed out the door,
I blinked to clear my eyes of sand
yet there he stood, up at the gate,
the old stick balanced in his hand.
I saw that it seemed shorter now,
so slightly twisted, bent with time
as all things that have toiled for years,
yet kept their strength still – aged – like wine.
And then the handle filled his hand
as it had filled my father’s, too
the old work horse grew straight once more,
then took him off on rambles new.
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Liam was inspired to write his poem when he read an article on ‘Making a Blackthorn’ here.