In his new steps sprung, in lighter spring, He picks up his sword and dances and sings, His dad falls into a rightly furious fit, The son now dares, his authority he dares.
In odd directions this father fired praise, Dad taught his son to fear and to fight, Neither conscience should benefit within, Nor the need to honour fragile skin. The boy dances his venomous jig.
Dad's ranting falters, bereft of a seas roar, Barely a pip from a soapy bubble. His authority's gone asleep on a warm couch.
Do as I say, it's been your miner's curse, Other heavy words peal the boy's ears, At war again, fighting yet a weaker war, The son is feeling less afraid with more.
Safely higher than his deepest fears, An in-between half man who is averaging up, Now near deaf to his old man's angry mess, The boy is confident and less distressed.