——— for your grandfather
It’s cold in late November, not at
all the kind of weather,
no, not at all how I remember
meeting him. Plant lice on his prize
tomatoes. Those lost
and leafless trees he painted —
woodland cedars, birches, maples —
every one a dream
he dreamed of fire depleted.
Washed-out whites, a field of green,
to bring relief to earth tones.
And the trees in blackened aubergine
— their branches
nerve-end arteries flash-frozen —
windfall limbs and leaves —
with orange peel. It’s summer
in my memory — tent-caterpillars in
the trees — out back
the blowtorch whispering.
Phillip Crymble is a physically disabled poet from Belfast now living in Atlantic Canada. A poetry editor at The Fiddlehead, he received his MFA from the University of Michigan and has poems either published or forthcoming in The Irish Times, The Walrus, The London Magazine, Poetry Ireland Review, The Literary Review of Canada, The Forward Book of Poetry, and elsewhere.
the Tuesday poem is curated by rob mclennan