Story

I hope you can see past, what I freely accept, seems to be

a dark poem at first glance. I do not, yet there's sadness

for sure, it was however, from a philosophical set of ideas,

born, and is about the endless tales close family tell, and

how despite the moaning and groaning, we greet them

with, they are actually small treasure.

Moments were lost to the Squall

that froze his mind, before a wry

smile opened pages, to flicker-book

the words, now faint under the

yellowed dab and daub of hard living;

Neither ink trace nor the scant focus

from light-dimming, cataract could hide

a story, a story, on repeat, endlessly

told until patience and posture

themselves, wilt and weep;

‘Then he slammed hard on the breaks,

and all the lads leaning out of the back

of the truck, were suddenly at the front

in a heap, swearing’, cursing!

-“Were not the front wheels that bit light

on the icy road”, my words brought a pause

-‘That’s right, I’m boring you again, sorry lad’ .

A pause, and at the age of 60y I finally get it!

Tell me again of lads on peddle bikes with

Cow-horn handlebars, racing around cinder

tracks in the old quarry, of rifle-stocks sanded to

toys, how you could’ve been a pilot but

for migraines, and were nearly sent

to fight in Korea;

I need to hear them all, feel the 'love

with the lightest touch', just once more,

before one of us must go.

Stories carry the soul far beyond our

calendar marks and the stretch of years.

I lived those vignettes of your life too,

I was in the Lorry ‘s cab

with you, just now Dad.