A Portrait

There stands a portrait in the East hall


A man, tall, foreboding

My grandfather, I think

And he stares out of the wall

With hollow, black eyes

As if nothing had ever gone his way

And his gray hair feathers in all directions

Beneath a flat cap like drivers wear

Or so it was in the forties.

I don’t remember him

He was gone before I was old enough to talk

But I have heard stories

That he was talented as a musician

And could tune a piano.

I supposed I might have sat on his lap

While he drank coffee between jobs

Or he might have bounced me on his knee.

So much to learn from a portrait.