The Man Who Named Winter

He didn't pray aloud,

but he watched the sky like scripture

and read the stars with reverence.

He knew the names of birds

the way others knew saints,

and taught me to listen

to the hush between the trees

as if silence might answer.

His hands were cracked

liked the old teacups we drank from,

but they held the world steady,

held me me steady.

He never said he loved me,

he never had to.

Love lived in the sandwich by the fire,

in the tin-cup of tea,

in the way he wrapped my scarf

a little tighter,

when the snow began to fall.

When he died,

the seasons changed -

but I still dream of our bluebell hill,

still nod to the brambles,

still wait for winter,

because he's there.

The first man who stayed.

The first true home I knew.

The man who named winter holy.

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My Grandad was a war veteran, a photographer, and an engineer. He made things work when others gave up. And when the system failed me — when I was taken from an abusive foster home that should never have existed — he was the one who came. He took me in. He showed me what honour looks like when no one is watching.

His blood is my blood.And in our line, we do not look away from what is wrong. We name it. We name winter. And we do not let the dark have the final word.

David Thomas McCarthy 1922-1992