Tenses
By Ewen Glass
Five now,
my son complains of schmooshed faces,
tight arms,
hugs masquerading as tickles.
Sometimes
I don't think I can let him go.
I want
to travel the future with him.
My Dad,
huddled low in the western isles
with Claire,
hasn't met him, though he sent a
present
when he was born (then switched to texts).
And now
under a new absence of words
resolve
swells in me, as sentimental
as drink,
holding my one grand hope afloat
that all
that ever was, is and will be
between
my son and me, won't live despite
or between lines.
He won't have to go searching for
I love you
I love you
I love you.
Ewen is a Northern Irish poet who lives in England with two dogs, a tortoise and lots of self-doubt; on a given day, any or all of these can be snapping at his heels. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in HAD, Bridge Eight, Poetry Scotland, Maudlin House, Belfast Review and elsewhere.
Artwork Source: “Embrace,” The Turning Leaf Journal
The Turning Leaf Journal 