Tag Archives: Life

Dad

Dad was a twin, so identical
they were still mistaken for each other
into late middle age.
Which was always funny.

Dad was a runner,
running for sheer joy
so gracefully.
Keeping that joy into old age.

Dad was an artist,
an art school graduate who
gave it up to feed his family.
Only after his stroke did he paint once more.

Dad was a gardener,
after work  checking his beloved tomatoes
before he saw his wife and children.
“But they’re my tomatoes.” he would say – and we forgave him.

Dad loved the outdoors,
walking children and grandchildren across fields
to watch rabbits and deer.

Dad was a friend to all,
and interested in everything
“Who is Dad talking to now” we would cry.

We lost him at at a stately home,
found him and Lord Bath discussing crockery
in the formal dining room.

Dad was a family man,
He loved his wife, children, grandchildren so much.
Everyone who met him found a new friend.

We will watch his grandchildren grow
Who is the runner? Who the artist? Who is the friend?
May they all be as kind.

And we will all remember his smile.

Copyright © 2019 Kim Whysall-Hammond

For Trevor William Whysall, 1930 – 2005

This was my eulogy at Dad’s funeral in 2005. His grandchildren are all mostly grown up now. Art, sports, love and kindness feature largely in each of their lives. I am proud of them all. He would be too.

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Tube Train

He stands, legs nonchalantly hooked
around the central pole,
clean pressed stovepipe jeans, battered Leather,
coloured spiky hair, life creased face,
lively eyes roving across fellow travellers.
We nod recognition, two observers on the night tube.
A tall Rasta joins at the next stop
dreadlocks tumbling from pirate scarf
drinking from a bottle swathed in paper
impervious to all.
Around us, Chinese teenagers sweet with Peter Pan charm
sated concert goers, weary tourists, glossy City traders.
These two self contained gentlemen rise above
embody the blunt London of my childhood.
Punk and Rasta.

Copyright © 2019 Kim Whysall-Hammond

 

Dark heat

This clump of small trees conceals a secret,
steep rock scattered slope sliding into black
amongst long tangled roots.
A high tunnel, arching roof, sharp cutting surfaces,
rock drips hanging,
umbilical cord sinuously writhing down
into volcanic depths now empty
silent and still.
Liquid rock ran here once,
the rock around us the scum that floated
on a glowing river extruding into up above
reaching out with fiery devils fingers
grasping at fields and lives.

Night is a cavern, a tunnel to the depths,
it can be littered with fears
haunted by worries, swamped by unslept sleep.
This primordial dark, this barren silence
is filled by the hammering of our hearts.
An apocalypse that is long gone into history,
still we feel the presence of subterranean death
hear disaster echoing across time.

 

Copyright © 2018 Kim Whysall-Hammond

Published at Fourth and Sycamore in July 2018.

Evening in Norwegian mountains

White cold sun slides down
The arc of brief afternoon
Dips behind a shattered peak
And snow and air turn vivid blue
Colouring all in dimness
Silence becomes more so
It is the time for trolls

My sons laughter fills the sledding slope
As I cajole them to the cabin
A long walk away
Across deep snow
During the time for trolls

Copyright © 2017 Kim Whysall-Hammond

Re-blogged from 2017