I Remember My Father

I remember my father.

Remember being carried high 

on his shoulders when

he was walking into town.

I remember that I was scared.

I had never been carried

on shoulders before.

Was there a bus strike

or no money for the fare?

That I don’t remember.

I remember my father

sitting in a chair, a passenger

on a bus or tram,

as I collected his fare

and gave him a ticket.

He drove trams once

and then later he cleaned them.

I remember my father.

Remember sitting on his knee

looking at Rupert Bear books.

I knew the stories by heart

so people thought I could read

and were very impressed.

But I could only remember.

I remember my father.

I don’t need photographs

to jog my memory,

which is just as well

since there are none,

None of him whole, anyway, 

just one of his legs

in loose grey trousers,

sitting by me as I planted seeds

in my first garden.

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