a poem for my late father on Father’s Day

Our Garden

The garden,

That’s where he met me.

Weathered walls,

Gated; secret.

Unkempt and abundant,

Scents of green,

Heady perfume,

A wild meadow,

Encircled by bark,

Safe; hidden away,

This private beauty.

The gate opened,

Momentary present,

We walked,

Caressed by roses,

Tugged by thorns.

“There was nothing to say.”

“I’m grateful for what was.”

Fresh-water words,

A hand held,

A flickering embrace,

He turns and goes.

Nearly to the gate,

And I run, ever after, in pursuit.

“Don’t go, I love you.”

A smile, and then:

“Come to the garden;

Here, I’ll always be.”

For my Dad – Father’s Day 2017

Image credit: AboutBritain.com

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