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by Dan
Rated: 13+ · Poetry · Death · #2187624
A son’s memory of his father.

Papa oh Papa I’ve wandered
Far from the mountains where the eagles would fly
Far from the forests where the winds rushed and died
I remember the rivers carried yesterday’s rain
and the sounds of the waterfall calling my name
But how where your hands shaped
as they reached for mine
To catch me as I stumbled or to ease an incline
how were your arms held
did their swing match your stride
You were tall, I remember
with knapsack well strapped
on your green corduroy jacket
and your Irish tweed hat
I remember your eyes as they peered down at me
with a gleam and a twinkle
when a tall tale you’d tell
I’d sit hunched on a bolder as you’d weave your spell
There were trips to the city
that you loved so well
head back and laughing at the Village art fair
Awestruck and mocking as we looked at their wares
the fountain was offering a drink to the sky
you were comfortable there and with you so was I
But Papa, I’ve wandered and lost your in form
So I sit and write memories
in this way I mourn
for the days in the mountains where the eagles would fly
for the times in the city where the fountains met sky
for the moments we spent, that came to an end
for the years filled with days, hours and moments
not spent together, since then
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Printed from https://www.Writing.Com/view/2187624