My father

I'm gradually improving at last, and have been very cheered in the past few days by finishing a few half-done projects - two novels (reading, not writing!), a sock, and a shawl. I love a sense of achievement, and I'm not fussy where it comes from!

It's getting near to Father's Day, so I'd like to share a poem I wrote about my late father. He was a huge influence on me - a successful businessman who kept his integrity. His funeral was packed out with people whom he had helped. He was very proud of all our achievements, and I know he would have been proud of me for not giving up when I got ill.

The eccentric lullaby I mention was Mad Carew, his party piece. His soft Hampshire accent made his recital a very soothing and soporific thing - but if we had listened to the words, we would have had screaming nightmares! I recorded his performance on tape once, and I am so glad that I have that still.


Dad

I fit beneath your arm

black Sunday suit

or fresh grass and hot cotton
clammy garden-sweated skin
beads on your lip
and your balding head

eccentric lullaby in burring purr
brings back your presence

sharp as grief