My Father Perceived as a Vision of St Francis Poem by Paula Meehan

My Father Perceived as a Vision of St Francis



for Brendan Kennelly

It was the piebald horse in next door's garden
frightened me out of a dream
with her dawn whinny. I was back
in the boxroom of the house,
my brother's room now,
full of ties and sweaters and secrets.
Bottles chinked on the doorstep,
the first bus pulled up to the stop.
The rest of the house slept

except for my father. I heard
him rake the ash from the grate,
plug in the kettle, hum a snatch of a tune.
Then he unlocked the back door
and stepped out into the garden.
Autumn was nearly done, the first frost
whitened the slates of the estate.
He was older than I had reckoned,
his hair completely silver,
and for the first time I saw the stoop
of his shoulder, saw that
his leg was stiff. What's he at?
So early and still stars in the west?

They came then: birds
of every size, shape, colour; they came
from the hedges and shrubs,
from eaves and garden sheds,
from the industrial estate, outlying fields,
from Dubber Cross they came
and the ditches of the North Road.
The garden was a pandemonium
when my father threw up his hands
and tossed the crumbs to the air. The sun
cleared O'Reilly's chimney
and he was suddenly radiant,
a perfect vision of St Francis,
made whole, made young again,
in a Finglas garden.

COMMENTS OF THE POEM
Jim Cavanaugh 23 May 2018

Paula, A great poem! A strong visceral appeal to a private kind of morning where you are the lone observer. The story of so many of our lives. I was born on October 4th (1948) , the feast of St. Francis of Assisi, so I`m always drawn to him. Your father`s grand gesture drew so many birds to the morning and this created such a palpable image of the Italian saint for me. You are terrific! !

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