MY FATHER'S VOICE

In the winter my father worked the big horses

in the fields hauling out the stumps

as I ran along the furrows where ice

held the dead stalks stiff and straight

in the hard ground, and at night,

when the steam rose off the sweating backs

of the team, he moved among the harnesses

and sweet-smelling hay in the dark barn,

talking softly to them as their wet hides

rippled beneath his hands.

Later, when my brother's breathing eased

in our room beneath the eaves,

I went to the window and pressed myself

against the cold glass and watched the farm

appear and disappear in the rain,

and my father's voice came up the stairs

like thunder a long way off.

Now, when trees are wet and bent

against the windows, our children come

to our bed and press their warm bodies against us

wanting stories, and fall asleep with rain sluicing

through the rain gutters, the team coming up

from the fields, lifting their heavy legs

in and out of the wet grass, their coats glistening

like jewels in the mist, my father driving them,

his voice rising and falling in the cold air.