Dad

Oaken fingers twist their grip on smooth aluminium, hanging on.

Back bent, you rock the walker, each step a strain.

I wait, watching the man I raced to keep pace with each day,

punctuality your perpetual master, savour each slow shuffling movement.

You pause for breath.

‘Take your time,’ I say.

My young limbed son, your grandson, stops running and watches.

The wind ruffles the tree tops, petals drift carelessly away.

Reviews

[C J Heyworth]

Terrific from word one - focus on a strong visual containing a further clue (as we age arthritis in particular may make us appear to be as gnarled as mature trees0 contrasting with the smooth aluminium of the walking frame.
And the contrasts continue - the punctuality of Dad's older life replaced by hesitation and slowing, and the bent aged father contrasted with the spry and full-of-vigour youngster.
Until the final line captures the careless passage of time and change delicately - the passage of time seems hardly to be happening until we notice the contrast you have described.

It is a real joy to find a poem on here that IS actually a poem, and not just a vague wail about how awful Life can sometimes be, or declarations of how impossible it seems to "understand it all".

Thank you for sharing, Jacky.

(I'm no longer a teacher doing "MARKING". So I regard providing a Rating out of 100 would be a cheek on my part)

[Woody]

you paint a wonderful picture with your words. you're an artist. love this.

[Effector Prime]

such beautiful melancholy you purport. It's not easy to watch either of our parents as they meander.. meander.. ever so slow but steady.. towards.. whatever.. We can only hope they go on.. But it's inevitable..
you've captured the emotion and exacted it in a perfectly articulate piece of writing.. well done, and thanks for sharing compadre