I woke, icicles frozen to the window pane
melting as I looked out; Snow, drifts deep
on the lawn. Still crunching my toast
chilled toes wriggled into damp wellies,
school cap askew, I slam the back door-
Sinking to my bare knees, I stumble to the gate.
Along the school lane, boys snowballed
shouted and slid. At Auntie’s house I stopped,
my eyes seeking the upstairs window-
In that room, last night, another sister
new born, lay. Encore, no fraternal
frolics for’ dained, for me to play
STRONG & SILENT
Fathers of that era
did not hug or touch or
intimate their love.
He was the same
Did he love us, we his
kin, his blood-seed. He
did not say, yet I believe he did.
He was a provider, for
sure. A taste for beer,
never dissolute and
he smoke as most
working folk, did then.
An adept gardener, his
our meagre rationed diet.
Did he care, he never
said, I’m sure he did.
What made him tick,
deep down, I mean
where only introspectives,
types like me will sometimes dig.
It is easy, so easy to theorise. His
generation, strong and silent, did not
discuss such things,especially with his son,
such things were never
with Mum. Feelings
were not shared but
held back, within.
A reservoir of emotions
until death shatters
the dam.Is that why I cried
so, the day he died
and still I wonder..
did I cry for me,
or was it for him
Listen to me read these poems on youtube under name of ichthyschiro