My father has tarried for fifty years

at his cobbler’s desk, at the village’s sunrises.

In that time, his children and others have walked

in those red shoes of leathery fish skin

which burned in sea-salt.

Forward to today:

His hands have become so black, so rough,

he keeps them in his pockets when he and his family

go to church.

He knows all the villagers’ shoes

and how they tread.