If: Hour 20

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.

3 thoughts on “If: Hour 20

  1. This poem is like a whisper, echoing. Instead of getting quieter, it grows louder until it is all I can hear.

    I am very close to grief myself, and often my head is full of ‘if’s’. Thank you for sharing something so personal.

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