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a repost from 2012 prompted by Greg's poe. photo
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 smoked as most
working folk, did then.
An adept gardener, his
vegetables supplemented
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
done. Maybe..perhaps
with Mum. Feelings
were not shared but
held back, within.
A reservoir of emotions
controlled, withheld
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
Copyright © Brian Strand | Year Posted 2020
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