My Fatherís Watch
Left on the table after he died,
I wear it now, strap sweat-stained, glass scratched.
Sitting at my desk
I see him restlessly moving through his life,
holding a hammer or a hoe
as though to pause was to be only half alive.
Days, weeks and months tick by as I play catch up,
him always out in front,
his list of things to do all done.
My Fatherís Boat
Take a boy who yearns for harbours long before
he learns to make wood smooth:
plane cutting easy with the grain,
waves curling to the concrete floor.
Then, before he comes to fit up shelves for tins
of varnish, brass screws, dust,
be sure he knows the words that make a boat:
halyard, mainbrace, wanderlust.
If you have any thoughts on these poems, Chris Winterflood
would be pleased to hear them.