Poetry

Father

So many cliches when it comes to a dad

and daughter’s relationship that we once had.

For as we grow older and wiser maybe,

The dad that we had is not the one that we see.

 

 

Do you remember the nodding birds that you carved me?

The Dutch clogs that you made for my dolly called Crumb?

Do you recall the red Disco Belt you hid in the tree?

The flower press adorably painted by mum?

 

Do you remember the Capri from old man, Joe Kiss?

The bizarre gift of a Womble from a lady who lived near,

Who thought I was younger than her grandson but this

Was untrue, I was actually older by a year…

 

I remember you painting my skirting board in gloss paint,

Whilst I skipped out to go on a Sunday School trip,

I was in my ‘holy-holy’ phase, quite a Saint,

It didn’t last long as I let the mask slip.

 


It is said that when we decide upon marriage,

So as to avoid an inevitable disparage,

Choices are influenced by the first man we know.

So traits of our father will be found in our beau.

 

So for better or worse you and Nige are alike.

Quiet and strong, a bit mad.

With no father to guide him,

Love him or chide him,

He looks to you too like a dad.

 

Now here we have my most treasured memory,

One that meant more years after it became one.

Picture me ill, frightened and lonely,

A new baby demanding me down to my bone.

I can see you stood there by the side of my bed,

Opal Fruits in one hand, the other; Lucozade.

‘Hello Lizzie, I was just on my way home,’ you said.

‘Hello dad,’ replied I, my day had been made.

 

I guess I just thought you’d been asked to call in on me,

By a worried mother who just couldn’t make it.

But when told of my most treasured ‘dad memory’,

She confirmed she’d known nothing of your first visit.

 

It took me right back to the days of old Joe.

Of renovating that wonderful old Ford Capri.

Those long summer days (oh where did they go?)

The solitude of us, you and me

xxx

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