I Remember
I remember my father.
I don’t need photos
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
for my first garden.
I remember.
I don’t need photos
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
for my first garden.
I remember.
Perhaps he didn’t like being photographed,
or didn’t think he took a good one,
I don’t remember.
Perhaps he had blanked himself out,
put a sheet over his head
metaphorically or even really,
or placed his hands over his face.
Perhaps he then peeped through his fingers
opening and closing them like blinds.
I don’t remember.
or didn’t think he took a good one,
I don’t remember.
Perhaps he had blanked himself out,
put a sheet over his head
metaphorically or even really,
or placed his hands over his face.
Perhaps he then peeped through his fingers
opening and closing them like blinds.
I don’t remember.
The photo is black and white
but I remember life’s colours,
the coach trips to the seaside,
the walks to the town’s cafes,
visits to relatives with gardens
before we had one of our own,
gardens full of bright flowers
and my father sitting just there
watching while I planted seeds.
I remember.
but I remember life’s colours,
the coach trips to the seaside,
the walks to the town’s cafes,
visits to relatives with gardens
before we had one of our own,
gardens full of bright flowers
and my father sitting just there
watching while I planted seeds.
I remember.
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