The grip
He gripped my fingers tight, determined, hung
from very far below, his tiny hand
shaped like a powerful hook. That’s how we walked
together, joyfully, as if we’d known
each other for eternity. Perhaps we have.
“Hold on tight,” I said and, glancing down
at all the holes, lost branches, sharp stones,
I heard his feet pad rhythmically along,
faster than mine. I knew this autumn path
was virgin territory for both of us
I never thought I would be trusted so.
Did I deserve it – these warm fingers,
with other blood and flesh and bone, and clung
so confident, so thoughtlessly to me?
I feel them now, still hooked around my heart.
April 2011
