Colin F. Jones

MY FATHER

He’s just an old frail man you know with hardly any hair,
His hands they shake all the time and he can’t walk anywhere
Without oxygen he cannot breath and unlike you and me,
He has his own stored up supply; good stuff you must agree!
Since Mother died he lost the will to do much for himself,
Though time has softened that foul blow restoring vital health,
He is not the hard but gentle man who raised us long before,
Nor the tough professional soldier who went away to war.
But he is still as sharp as any would-be clever man,
And still has a sense of humour that none would want to ban.
He’s eighty seven and pushing on towards eighty eight,
So Mother dear, like always love, I guess you’ll have to wait
Until it’s time for him to leave to go back home to you,
Up there where ever people go whose souls are good and true

This poem prompted the response, “Your Father” ©Copyright August 24, 2005 by Robin Amy Bass