A Watcher's Tale
Christopher Moya
My father was a good man with hedge clippers,
And all the day long
He would snap the blades with heavy huff
And wipe his sweat-soaked ears
With the wrist of his glove,
Hunched like an ox,
Pruning the privet with steady shears
Till it sat pretty and proud in the hot afternoon.
His grunt was from deep in his throat,
But where the evenness was from I never knew.
Mother would tip her head to one side
With her hands on her hips.
She knew how to make him sigh.
Whichever stones or plots needed inches left or right,
He listened and swallowed his groan.
I used to watch him
While hugging a corner of the house
And focus on his arms winching in the sun.
Though she vexed him,
I knew his hands would never waver.
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