Father

His once proud figure 

Now shrunk,

He is an ancient child

Become too small 

For the big hardwood chair

He’s sitting in.

Oak, perhaps walnut, 

They both are

Something slow-growing, tough,

Something the world has neither 

Time nor patience for anymore.

They grew from the same ground,

Roots in the deep, 

A part of the land

Where they belong.

A new age has dawned:

Furtive, sleek, and disposable.

I’m a broken bridge 

That fails to span the 

River of time, and so

We watch each other 

With lonely eyes, 

My father and I.

Reviews

[Lorry]

There is nothing quite so sad in life as the moment you realise that the giant of a man you once knew as a hero to you, is now weaker and frailer than you could have ever imagined. Although it doesn't necessarily mean he still isn't a hero to your eyes.

[Kelly Scheppers]

Wow. Such a moving, evocative piece, Laz. Our Dads are our heroes, and we never see ourselves being without their love or presence in our lives. There's a piece of this poem that everyone who reads it can walk away with. I've got mine. Thank you for this extraordinary poem!