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Portrait of the Artist as a Lone Tree

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Daniel

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You asked, “How many men were in the fire?”
Beneath the counterpane my fingers flick,
and proudly I announce, as if a trick,
that three young men had caused the king his ire.
You smiled and said, there were not three but four;
and like the ancient king, I stared in shock.
You chose belief whilst others chose to mock,
and so, the word went blazing to the core.
The handmade rug you laboured at so long
was special, in a way no words could tell;
and when I went to sleep, I knew full well
that daddy cared to teach me right from wrong.
You read the bible laid upon your knee,
and then, there were not two inside, but three.


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