I never knew how true love was
Until after my father was gone
I never knew all the things he did
The care and kindness he hid
I never knew so many things
I drifted through life unaware
I thought I knew where I was going
Until my father was gone
He tested me
He challenged me
He was always there
The rock in a stormy sea
I never knew he was proud of me
Until those last years of Sunday leisure
How can you measure anything
Until it’s over and gone
the rooks nest in the Linden
a long established colony
the trees stand out, bare of leaves
flat grey clouds and stillness
nothing enters this empty street
it’s a quiet Sunday
the bins await the refuse men
collection Monday
beside the houses whitewashed bricks
weeping willow, drooping, static
May is slowly budding
daffodils split the earth in triumph
the garden now is overgrown
a lone child kicks a stone
the empty table and six chairs
of weathered wood awaiting summer
i open wide this window
to listen for a sound
i hear a bird call, the creak of wings
as two wild geese circle to the river
no other sounds reach my ear
nothing moves in gentle air
there is nothing more to hear
this quiet Sunday
Faded in black in white, about nineteen-thirty,
Two boys sit on a window ledge, that house,
Narrow street between mountains, back, front,
A valley that smells of coal dust and soap,
Where the women polish the doorsteps daily
Dark red, down on their knees in gossip.
This photograph says so much about them,
Even then. My uncle sits prim and nervous
Worried he may slip from his perch,
Buttoned up in his best suit and collar
Ready for chapel and prayers I suppose.
His round face in glasses, held stiff.
While my father leans sideways, younger
By two years, swinging a leg and squinting
With the sun in his eyes and his knees all scuffed.
Dreaming of music and organ pipes
And the catapult hidden in his Sunday pocket,
A strong wish to be off there and up in the hills.
These brothers stayed like this all their lives
Never truly following the same paths;
One toeing the line for all he was worth
The other refusing to break his own rules,
Always the wild one up in the hills
Frustrated by all the restrictions of life.
The Dreaming Path 