IN MY FATHER’S STUDY
by Sally Evans
In this one room, the study,
I could never write.
It belonged to my father
who looked out on these trees
considering his parish
and the life that led him here.
Did it surprise him to be here,
again to engage and study
his new country parish
of which he planned to write
when jobs grew on trees
but he could go no farther?
I couldn’t do it, Father,
pin nor nail you here
among your marvellous trees
in your soul or your study,
nor would I grow to write
while you possessed this parish,
for it was mine too, the parish
of the world, where you, Father,
inhibited my writing.
There was something I did not hear
when you occupied this study
guarded by many trees.
How I loved the trees,
great green parishioners
whose ways I studied,
accustomed to my father
lording it here
as though he was always right.
Gyroscope Review - !49