Using the word ‘mornings’ from The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock (by TS Eliot) as a prompt.
If my father could step
into these precious mornings –
closing my grief so carefully
and so completely
behind him like a gate;
to stand here, quietly,
at the farm with me,
I would draw him close,
talking of harvests and crop-filled sheds,
of animals fed for the evening,
sharing my memory of a man climbing with ease
above the raised bars in the byre
while his small daughters
shrieked in delight;
I would tell him of my quiet love, too,
in our final long, slow days.
And of his fingers stroking mine
– much smaller then, cupped safely in his palm –
as we sat together those quiet Sunday mornings
in the family pew.