At sixty-five my grandfather
is learning to write his name
one hand flat
on the oilcloth covered table-
the other grappling
with a pen, guiding it
slowly over the paper.
He checks each
uncertain curve and stroke
against his master copy
The only fine work
his fingers know
is thinning young lettuces
with a bent flange
of tin or neatly
extricating ripe cues
from their imprisoning web
To this kind of work
he's a stranger. As I
monitor his progress
I run the blunt edge of a knife
over the cloth
and watch the marks
bite,
deepen
then vanish. His only hope
is that those painful signs
will be recognised as his
by all who can read.
When he's finished
he leans back
and admires the miracle,
pleased to see a new
late shoot
emerging from its seed
දිනමිණ වසත් සුළඟ 02.05.2018
ලස්සනයි. ඉස්තුතියි.
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