Yonder is a father

Yonder is a father

With laughing children

A boy of two or three

A girl of not much more

Walking the river bank

Throwing leaves into the water

Playfully chasing Pooh sticks.

It is idyllic

Mesmeric.

How quickly came

To me

A glimpse of bygone childhoods

Bereft of life or colour

The bellow of disdain

The oppression of Victorian values.

But Pooh was written long ago

So many fathers

Must have played,

Since then

Acted the fool, rolled in the grass

Tumbled in a tousled

Lark

A hillside roly-poly parade

Of paternal shenanigans.

Do I cloak the simple things

In a shroud of shadow

A clap of thunder

The sharp resonance

Of a barked command

The flat of a hand

The humiliation of defeat

Taken aback when confronted

By compassion

The certainty of punishment

For the small things,

The gift of guilt.

Pure red cheeks

Flushed all the way down to the ground

Never taking freedom for granted

For their familiarity.

There is always a catch

A slipknot

A scapegoat

Trespassers will be prosecuted

At least an improvement

On being shot.

There is some reprieve

In small victories

Narrow definitions of success

Never wonder at so many

Little Englanders

Redneck Yanks.

Give me a loving moment to remember

A great achievement

In a world of chaos

Hope for the future

Reflected in a father’s eyes.

Kiss my forehead,

Daddy,

It has been waiting

For your touch

And is furrowed enough

To prove it.