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The Two on the Road

In later years, this day came back to you
as days of presence often do:

It’s the end of the midday break, and
the sun, already warm for Spring, is easing;
the sheep are grazing on the new grass;
two of them have jumped the low stone wall
to munch the juicier grass of the roadside ditch
which has spent the morning in dewy shadow.

Where the path to the stony fields
crosses the track back to the village,
you’ve found yourself walking just behind
a pair returning to the village,
father and son – or is it, grandfather?

You could overtake them, just to show
you mean no harm; but something about them
draws your attention; so you walk behind them
at a distance indicating that you know they know
you’re walking behind them, yet too far
to be listening to them…

which you’d dearly like to. They walk
slowly, deep in conversation,
this boy, this man; their relationship
catches your curiosity. You,
whose childhood was not always easy,
watch them with delight, a little mixed with envy;
you study their body language for some clues.

The man listens to the boy with such respect,
he could be a young grandfather,
marvelling that his son has fathered such a treasure,
quietly enjoying that unique blend
of bond and yet detachment which is grandfatherhood;

now and then, the boy touches his loose sleeve –
not in the way a child clutches, when he demands belief
in some tale of fantasy; more as if
the boy had discovered some gift
in what he says, and wants to share it with you.

And now and then,
the man touches the boy – as we do
when our child has said something so mature, so wise,
that we are speechless; and can only reach out
and touch them; as if some new relationship
had just been born; our touch
a mark of recognition beyond our words.

Just once, the boy turns his head, looks back at you,
briefly, but with that open look that village children often have,
when every stranger is a friendly curiosity;
you’re glad for him, of what that moment tells.

You follow them back to the village,
your curiosity aroused more than it should.
They open up the wooden front
of the lean-to where they ply their trade;

fascinated by their tender, deep relationship,
you’d really like to come back in an hour or so,
to look in on them, and hope to see the son
working on the wood as lovingly
as he has spoken to the man.. but
you decide against it. One day,
you might come back, request their careful skills -
perhaps a new cupboard for your house.

Their tidy, ordered workplace needs no craftsman’s signboard;
if there were, the villagers tell you when you gently ask,
it would be Joseph & Son.

poem by Michael Shepherd
Added by Poetry Lover
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