To Martin

Times
In the quiet and dusk of
Night, I have wakened
Inside a dream of neutral languor,
Confessing (with a smile) that my years
Point nowhere. Far from
The scent of fear, the crackle of fire,
The drumbeat of conquest, the tear of regret and
That pit I travel without naming,
I have felt a thought
That is softer and more inevitable
Than the footsteps of change:
Existence means what it feels like
And nothing more:
Who kindles the peace of this cliché with a question
Or a dream of purpose
Will see his wits burn
On the vicious pyre of sunrise.

But, little son,
There was an autumn morning
When we walked our hill that
Burned with heather, russet leaves and rowan-fruit,
When we were cousins of hawk and weasel
And brothers of the hare and mallard,
In a land
Where nettle and grass had
Learned to love our weight,
I saw suddenly on your face a
Miracle which said
That you found me necessary
And so in a second
My existence was bewitched to
A stranger thing called purpose.

Allow me, then,
To preen my newfound status
Till that day on some future hill
When your cool eyes tell me that
I am still of value, but no longer
Necessary. That night I shall smile
And retreat into the dusk of nostalgia
Affirming that man’s existence means only
What it feels like, except when
His child bequeaths him purpose from a glance
And for a short season
Fills his father’s heart
With the secret spark that lights the darkness
Of every question in the world.