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
Copyright © Terry Ireland | Year Posted 2025
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