He hears me without listening,
He sees me without looking,
He speaks to me without talking,
Without a voice.
But I hear him daily, feel his words about me,
Not about, but around me.
He looks older now, his skin pale and drying,
Scrawny arms in silhouette revealing,
A frame still statuesque,
Even in his winter years.
Not even a shadow of his former self,
His summer self, when in rude health,
He would scruffle with the wind,
And brazenly black out the sun.
Then he would holler at me for fun,
Thundering his whispers in my ears,
Letting me know I was safe.
As he does every waking day.
2 thoughts on “My Old Man”
Beautiful poem, Graham.
That’s very kind of you Smitha, I hope you aerw keeping well.