He looked over the junk table,
Expert eyes that built towns,
Expert eyes that marked buttress and gable
Not seeing just looking over.
He shifted his feet, picked a device
"Why ask ? You can’t pay the price."
He looks over the table still.
In the old days he was a picture
Black haired hazel eyed wonder
That soothed the ears of many hopes
Pride of breeding and virtue.
The tatty wind warmer hides
The spine bend of the man once here
The great weir worn from the tides
In the spit drizzle of the October sheer.
I'm sorry father, that when you were alone
I could not be there to stop the joy slipping
Like your seemingly solid soul
That winter took away from me
I'm sorry I did not forget my anger
And you fell, without your hands
Without your purpose
Aimless to yourself, useless to others.
I'm sorry father, come back to me,
Let me hear your laughter again
Fuzzy and bright in African grasses
Let me pass some warmth into your bones.
By Ali. A. Naqvi
Note: This was originally written a long time ago which would place it around the turn of the millennium as far as i can remember. This means it's about 7 years to 8 years earlier than the rest of the work in the cycle.
The second part which starts "on reflection" feels like a key change in the poem. I did that simply becuase, at the time, my father was ill and it was how I felt. I have noticed some of the sentiments could have been repeated after he passed away. This duality made me include the whole poem in the Twelve Moments cycle.