Him

 

I never dream of my father

although he’s often in my thoughts

and looks down to my desk

from a teenage photo in uniform,

 

I’m now older than he

by some six years or so

a strange and uncomfortable feeling

that I will forever appear his elder,

 

I last spoke to him in January 1987

when I held his lifeless hand

but cannot remember my words,

 

I knew he was proud of me

and had made him cry once

with that pride

words then were unnecessary,

 

Were we to ever meet again

it would be the river bank

both staring intently at floats

an occasional glance decorated by a smile

 

 

 

© Graham Sherwood 10/2018