Sat in his armchair.
Slippers worn and torn,
Face unshaven, Hair disheveled,
What was he thinking.
...
When you were only thirty three,
You laid down your life for me,
I think of you on the cross so high,
God I do not want to die.
...
Sat in his cell thinking,
The silence was deafening,
Alone in his thoughts,
Time without meaning.
...
My Dad
Sat in his armchair.
Slippers worn and torn,
Face unshaven, Hair disheveled,
What was he thinking.
A cigarette hanging from his lips,
The ashes on his cardigan,
Like fallen snow.
I knew he loved me,
But he never said so.
Nor did he ever give me a hug,
That would be sissy.
He missed my ma as I did,
And seemed not to care anymore.
A cantankerous old git,
But I loved him.
Now he was in the autumn of his years,
One day he woke up and was old.