I’ll read your death at breakfast- a small article
woven just beneath another story-
“Historic Oak tree removed for public saftey…”-
that instruments, tuned to every sharp , sang you hollow
and the men eyeing your open cage
counted your rings,
one for every year you held a shadow.
When I was three feet from the earth
you were my monster,
eating each figment，
your lungs had howled a century
bracing every one of them-
the storms that shook you-
the lightening, war ready,
itching to parse you.
At six feet, I saw your skin everywhere,
stoic on infinite fields, cast in an overhang on streets-
under dinner plates-
holding up spines and crooked backs.
Years from now, returned to four feet,
men eyeing my open trunk-,
my rings countless,
I will remember you
overseeing our Sunday picnic, sighing
your arms braced.
Little acrobats lost from parents ascending,
small hands hooking your royal skin
unable to catch them,
to float beneath your tower.
And when the sun
folds itself into the horizons breast,
I’ll look back to you & see my father, linear,
draining himself behind you – ushering me away,
you, the silent sentry
side by side-
two old Kings-
two great Beasts.
I’ll hear the fade of my mother
swimming the incus of my ear
Hurry pet, or we’ll leave you behind.
Simon Costello graduated from Athlone Institute of Technology Ireland with a B.A in Law, and currently work as a childrens’ English teacher in China. He has completed a poetry workshop under Irish poet Eileen Casey. He was previously long listed for a competition with Brilliant Flash Fiction in Ireland.