Face to Face

My cheeks hang uncomfortably, side by side,
the uninvited guests who didn’t ring ahead
and now stand on the doorstep
with teetering embarrassment.
Under his impassive, gentle patient stare.
I gently grate my teeth,
the bottom lip pushed right up tight,
to a winsome grimace, my father’s face
with crooked lines of cobblers’ tacks, dangling there.
Am I unwittingly becoming him?
In sorrow, with a tear about to seep,
a buried sob-sigh draws it back
to the safety of the duct unseen.
His unsatisfactory, saddened, helpless gape.
And with the helpless concentration of next doors’ cat
himself transfixed by the staccato baton
of a squirrel’s tail,
I find myself remembering him,
Amongst the pink white gauze of hawthorn bloom

© Graham Sherwood 3/2011

Harbour Wave

You birthed me, fed me, warmed me.
For years I held your hand and you guided me.
As I grew you let me go, to walk alone,
to forget your voice, to change my clothes,
become a man.
I began to gouge, to rape and burn,
in avaricious oblivion, shrugging
at the weary grimace on your face,
passive, pained and desolate.
So back you turned,
without warning and in magnificent retaliation
to chide me, as an irritating flea,
shaken from the wet dog’s tail
to teach me once again, humility
respect and sense of place.

© Graham Sherwood 3/2011