Patriarchy- For Contest
As fathers go, I used to say, I thought he was alright
took the work wherever he could and kept our fire alight.
Brylcreem hair , good muscle tone, a boxer's solid build
army tour in Burma where his discipline was drilled
his right and wrong were black and white, he clearly drew the line
step beyond, by God you knew it- otherwise, you're fine.
Skilled with hands to sketch and whittle, genius with a saw
and musical- Harmonica (Sunday evenings) at his jaw.
But as years passed there came the cloud which we had all been fearing
lungs and heart all damaged from industrial engineering.
Powerless, no air nor strength, a pallor greyish-blue
from bed to armchair, back again was all that he could do.
The rules now changed, they had to, as to what the future be
so life played spin the bottle, and the bottle stopped at me.
Carrying the gasping shell with all the strength I had
fate's wind had turned the weathervane and boy became the dad.
Until that August, '81 , time off for good behaviour
final release and went in peace through the mercy of the Saviour.
I stood outside and cried and cried , my only words were 'Dad',
the weathervane took pity and blew back, and kissed the lad.
For competition 'Patriarchy' by Thomas Martin
14th July 2015
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