My father wrote like this!

austere, wintry verse

elegant like a Japanese water-colour on rice-paper.

Hung on the air etched in monochrome

each line precise and shaped

like a sickle moon

 a swan’s neck curving

a loving gesture

lithe and live.

 

He conjured images of simplicity and stillness

 to the purest geometric point

without preamble, adjectives or embroidery;

Like the spirit of the man, the way he saw:

pared down to the bones of perfection

whittled to essence

mind-raptured and poised

distilled, drop by drop

into ink.