Conversations

Conversations with my father, Bittersweet, and maybe sad Conversations with my father Talks that we never had. Companionably silent As we set off walking Neither of us known For doing too much talking Down Lambwath road To Billy Bulson’s farm, Each with a broken 12 bore Tucked safely underarm. I was at his hospital bedside On the day that he died Once alone in the car I gave in and cried. I am now past that age And like him slowing down. Maybe that’s the reason now I feel him there and around. We talk about the garden, Always his joy and pride. He was never the man To spend his time inside. We talk of this and that In our lazy easy way And I suppose we chat now Nearly every single day. Maybe it’s because I’m older, That much nearer the other end But there we sit and chat Like two good old friends. Conversations with my father Bitter sweet and maybe sad, Conversations with my father, Talks I wish we’d really had