A fairy tale for fathers

They asked me why I was roaming

alone in the lands of a witch,

skint, with this backpack of Meaning

(’s heavy, the son of a bitch).

And this old horse for my mission

was named, by the king, The Last Hope.

Since a wintery Alchemist served him

a chalice of years full of dope

he cannot rise from his tow-van.

His Grace rolls around, wets his bed.

That’s why he took my hand, whispered:

I know that you know my dead.

I’ve seen the swords that undid them,

I marked them – remember? – last fall.

Now someone’s stolen my steel, but

Astarte, the witch, has the scroll.

Find her wherever she’s hiding.

His voice shook as hard as his fist.

Find her and tell her I’m sorry.

Tell everyone. Then we may rest.

This was the letter he passed me

one day with his back to the wall

(I very still very silent,

a portrait of no-one at all).

Twenty-eight years I've been roaming,

punch-drunk and devoured by the wind.

My heart's like the draft of his letter,

big words, and no clue how to end.