Broken Wheels. (A slight re-write)

Started by Granda, June 18, 2019, 12:38:24 PM

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A leisurely stroll in the park with the boy is a gift beyond measure.
Horses cant.
Dogs frolic.
Birds twit and screech from bush to tree.

The handy connection tween old father and son
is all that roots us to the well-trodden ground.
With glazed and bright eyes
we see all that is wonder.

In his mind, the old father hears the merry-go-round
sounds of far away rides.
Gaily painted horses, mounted on gold posts,
gleam and grin.

He smiles down at the boy
remembering another hand holding his,
whilst another hand with a leather belt
curls around an angry fist.

And he caresses the upturned face of his grandson,
knowing that wheels within wheels
can be broken.
Happy are they, as they walk.
My heart (and the rest of me) belongs to the Northeast of England.


Nice to see you here Bri,

Appreciate the generational interactions here. I am missing so much of my great-granddaughter's growing up years because there are 2000 miles between us.

How uplifting to read the tender pledge to change an unfortunate legacy.


Cheers Ind. I'm glad you 'saw' what I was trying to get across.
That just cos I was raised surrounded by familial violence, I don't have to promulgate it, or carry it on.
It's something I feel most strongly about. I think too many weaker persons use the excuse "I came from a broken home" to explain their own use of a slap or smack or a punch to exonerate themselves.
It doesn't. Thanks to the crit, I changed the fist to 'curls'. Much better, I think.


My heart (and the rest of me) belongs to the Northeast of England.