from Word from the Hills a sonnet sequence in four movements by Richard Moore 11 You were so solid, father, cold and raw as these north winters, where your angry will first hardened, as the earth when the long chill deepens—as is this country's cruel law— yet under trackless snow, without a flaw covering meadow, road, and stubbled hill, the springs and muffled streams were running still, dark until spring came, and the awful thaw. In your decay a gentleness appears I hadn't guessed—when, gray as rotting snow, propped in your chair, your face will run with tears,
fromWord from the Hillsa sonnet sequence in four
movementsbyRichard Moore
11You were so solid, father, cold and rawas these north winters,
where your angry willfirst hardened, as the earth when the long
chilldeepensas is this country's cruel lawyet under trackless snow,
without a flawcovering meadow, road, and stubbled hill,the springs
and muffled streams were running still,dark until spring came, and
the awful thaw.In your decay a gentleness appearsI hadn't
guessedwhen, gray as rotting snow,propped in your chair, your face
will run with tears,trying to speak, and your hand, stiff and
slow,will touch my childwho, sensing the cold yearsin your eyes,
cries until you let her go.
This poem by the contemporary poet Richard Moore about his
father and daughter proves that real life can be darker and more
frightening than any horror story.
