Senescent Language

Senescent Language

Of my forefathers

Lingers in my adolescent memory

I had vowed to forget my distant past

Only then could I become a true citizen

Of my Newfoundland.

A rationale lost on my children

Still there are forty words 

In my ancient tongue

To describe a non-symmetrical nose

This I remember.

Then the romance of my senescent language is still there.

No books were written in my ancient tongue.

Just the fading stories

Of war times

And beguiling peace.

Ochre soil. Lost souls.

Find home at last 

In Newfoundland.

When did your Diaspora begin! My son presses.

Was it during 1893 or 1914 or was it in medieval times?

No books are written in my senescent tongue.

My son is dissatisfied.

Mine is a story of mixing of bloodlines

My son's is even more so.