The Good Son.
March 2004.
I saw him stumbling up the path, and turned
To speak a word into my father's ear;
But
looking in his eyes, I saw they burned
With something stiller than wrath, deeper than tears.
The words died on my lips. A strange dismay
Arising in my heart, I watched him run
To greet my brother, meeting him halfway.
They stood, embracing, in the midday sun,
And then approached me, talking all the while.
My brother blushed and stammered like a boy;
My father's very body shone with joy.
I stood at the top of the path and tried to smile.
But I could not rejoice to see him shriven.
I have not sinned. I cannot be forgiven.