The Barrel

for Grandad

The barrel in the back yard brims

with rainwater all year round,

crowned with a thin film

of dead flies which you slice

with the flat of your palm,

splashing your feet and mine.

Dipping into the water

with your potato-muck hands,

you rinse your face

with winter rain

and stand and glean the dirt

from under each nail

with your dulled pocket knife.

You motion, it’s my turn,

and I laugh because I long

to do what you do,

to share in this, your ritual.

But I hear the kitchen sink

hissing out freshness,

and I leave you

to the rhythm of it,

to your little order of things.