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Strongman
When I was weak, grey
as dawn mist,
hair of carrot-grass, eyes of rain,
in a blurred world I dreamed
of gianthood, the moon
at my fingers' reach,
my hand in the cold breath
of blind heaven.
I used to carry my mother's weight
up our stairs five times each day,
heaving over the brown wool
through a sun flavoured by nicotine windows.
The flies hammered the glass,
aching for a garden
and an umbrella of oak.
Now see me tower.
See my copper branches raise
weights and dreamswept children.
From the acorn fed by her loss
I grew into a majesty of man,
my eyes now clear,
my fingertips in touch
with the moon's ash.
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