0399 The Father Poem by Michael Shepherd

Saturday afternoon,
the air, now so hot, and streets
busy with that slightly faster pace of personal intention,
weekend plans:

I remember the face from years ago -
dropout, errand boy, chancer, hanging around;
carrying that resentful face that settles on some school-age kids:
I'm just not bright...I'm told;

but here, now, today, at the pub' s front table
with his two sons, shining with non-stop conversation -
one an intelligent seven-and-a half, I'd guess,
one a very bright five-year-old,
-both of course a dab with mobile phones;
yet far more lively interested in the moment's talk
on this special boys' day out-
and though Dad reads the menu with slow finger,
you can almost see that magic circle in the air
that spells the enchantment of the family;

and I'm transported by wonder far past words
at that other magic circle
of love, sperm, fatherhood
and love...