Father’s Day

~

he would always set me up first

until I had learnt to do it for myself

then he’d light up a woodbine

sniff the air, take in the scene

and weigh up the possibilities

before sorting himself out,

apart from both of our rods 

all the tackle was handmade 

fabricated in his shed or from

bits of cannibalised paraphernalia

from the allotment, that he called 

the garden field,

he always looked the same

in his Sunday-best

worn-out tweed sports jacket, 

old suit trousers and wellingtons

folded over at the top,

I don’t ever recall the socks

being introduced to the wash,

we fished quietly amongst

the bankside wild garlic

which he often pulled to add 

to his sharp cheese doorsteps 

eaten with apple slices cut

with his trusty penknife,

it was there, by the Nene 

that I learned patience

how to do things right

and crucially, although I

didn’t realise it at the time

how to become a good father

*

© Graham R Sherwood 02/24