Father bought you here
On Saturdays and sat
Here on this bench, while
You played ball or hopscotch
Or skip rope and you’d look
Back now and then to make
Sure he was still there and he
Always was, giving a wave
Or smile or giving coins to buy
Ice creams or popcorn to keep
You content and always there
To guard you from others with
Evil intent. Father’s dead now,
The bench over looks other children
At play, and you sit where he sat,
Watching the children with ball
Or skip rope, looking about
With childlike hope, that Father
Was around some place, gazing,
Keeping guard, waving and smiling
With that look of content on his face,
But he’s not here or there, just you
And the children playing, you
Remembering him, while they
Play without worries or care.
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Comments: 5
Thanks for posting to my group, Anythingwriting
Shira
Somehow this sounds (and is many times), true. When we're lost, it's very easy to have the blues.
This is featured in Gather Writing Essentials, Monday,
With Thanks,
Marilyn