Having read the poem that Catherine Dj posted about her mother prompted me to look back at one that I wrote some years ago for my Dad.No rhyme or metre, just a bit of flow of consciousness.
I have also posted this as a reading on the 'Telling tales' group, if anyone wants to take a look.
My Dad came back again last night
as if he’d never been away.
We sat out on the deck, drank whiskey,
cut with ice from the hard edged moon.
We talked about Marmite and Oscar Wilde,
the state of the nation and how to recognise good steak.
Looking at him in that light
I saw the man I knew for just a while,
before his memories
outweighed his future.
His eyes claimed back their laughter,
our hands were steady as we raised a glass.
Waning with the moon
towards the horizon
he left me to myself,
to chink his empty glass,
and seek the warmth indoors.