Penny Farthing Poem by Jim McDonald

On a crisp Kent Autumn morning
My father throwing sticks, tennis balls, even his car keys
into a brown horsechestnut tree.
Down came showers of leaves and conkers.
Bending over me, he cracked the green shells
to reveal beautiful polished worlds:
small brown heavens of child treasure.
His huge hands rolling the conkers over, cleaning them,
and handing them to me.
Later on, after too long searching long wet grass
my small hands were damp and chilled
and he took them in his own,
wrapping long fingers around my small fists,
warming.
His hands were huge then, and are now.

Today my adult hands,
slightly battered after goalkeeping,
are still no match for his.

I use them now to offer a biscuit to my infant son.
He reaches, full of concentration, gauging distance,
and takes the food to his mouth.
I wrap my fingers around his tiny fist,
warming, circling, surprised to be
on the other side of things.

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