Dark Horses

Father used to take me out on nature walks
while he was still able: strength outs
as does youth and in the same direction.
Round the loch, past milling swans
(the black ones, he'd call dark horses
and it was only later on
i realised what he meant)
we'd go in hand, identify
thousands of trees, halloo rangers.

Our favourite ramble, most historic
in our compass area:
the size of a child's stride,
tiniest of protractors,
was to the monument and back, along a berried path.

When i was fourteen, attic adventurer,
chopping
through the family tree
in the hope of touching those rich
veins of kinship,
found i was his thirdborn, not an only child.

Confronted, the old man retreated
out of my life; i found a girl
to take on those same walks, to be the wife
i'd never abandon his way.

As it faded,
i wondered
if she'd cut me open
whether there would be found
the same whorls and knot-marks.