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Here you will find the writings of the poet Theodore Waterfield


My father had pale eyes,
the black hair of an Indian,
the Romanesque face of the English.
When I look at the frost
I see him.
His voice is audible.
As my hearing fades
I still hear him playing a guitar.
He had many figures in his soul
that are not in me.
I do not feel our blood connection.
It was a heart we shared.

The black coat he put on my shoulders
to warm me.
We were the beginning of a species,
flowers that can never bloom.
His arms held the earth.
It slips through mine
and takes everything away.
He was the sharp horizon between light and dark,
land and air.
We were father and son.
He taught me to see invisibles,
and I look for him now
where corners bend
at the end of empty streets.

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