Sundays too my Father got up early
And put his clothes on in the blue black cold,
Then with cracked hands that ached
from labour in the weekday weather made
banked fires blaze. No one ever thanked him.
I'd wake and hear the cold splintering, breaking.
When the rooms were warm, He'd call,
and slowly I would rise and dress,
fearing the chronic angers of that house.
Speaking indifferently to him,
who had drawn out the cold
and polished my good shoes as well.
What did I know, what did I know
of love's austere and lonely offices?
I had planned on going to an antiques show this morning, but before I left I happened upon Oliver Gustav , and was so inspired that I promptly emailed him and instead hit the studio like a man possessed.
click here to visit his blog
or here for his upcoming website.