Stones

Before my Father died,

he combed beaches for stones.

Picked for surface smoothness,

colour or shape.

I picture him in my mind's eye

at Anstey's Cove,

pockets half-filled with finds.

Why he decided to apply

clear varnish, allow time to dry,

glue a few chosen ones together,

graded by size, escapes me.

I haven't a clue.

Perhaps he knew his days were numbered

and already encumbered with

that disease which killed him,

on a whim he instructed his creative side

to shout out.

Years have passed, 

I sigh as I look at

unstuck remains.

In my hands I hold

the relics of my Father's

last days.

I 

Author's Note

Critique welcome please.

Reviews

[Neville]

these words have once again touched upon that nerve that refuses to die and would I want it to .. no of course not .. since its correct full name is treasured memory .. and now my mucky face is stained because of my involuntarily leaking eyes ... stones eh' who would credit that :) x

[Chris Shaw]

Aw, you know mucky faces are quite endearing. Thank you Neville for choosing this one.

Chris

[alanwgraham]

This is a very open and intimate memory of your father Christine. The mundane detail of the stones collected and varnished rings very true and I know from my own memories of my dad that its these small details that somehow settle in your mind.
You will have lots of other memories but well done for sharing this snapshot.
Regards,
Alan

[Chris Shaw]

Thank you so much.

[Kelly Scheppers]

...deeply palpable, Christine. Such a lovely tapestry of your father!

[Chris Shaw]

Thank you Kelly. Appreciate your review.