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.

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.

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.



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