The day you brought your holy deeds to my house,
remember how I showed you mine on paper,
written by mortals; my father, his father
and back beyond memory.
Still you made your holy claim, your righteous
fingers poking scripture fiercely for proof,
neatly circling the love song of the prophets,
ignoring the rocks that know our family name,
trespassing the soil that holds our olive trees.
Then, with God’s bulldozer,
your heart still fixed in exile,
you violated the law of neighbours.
Peter O’Grady: “At 65 I started writing the poems I should have been writing all my life, and reading the poems I should have been reading all my life – that’s 3 years ago. I read my efforts regularly at the Words & Ears monthly poetry sessions in my home town in Wiltshire, UK. So far so good!”