Robbie Poem by jim hogg

My father was a complex man,
a stranger mostly to his kids;
though those who knew him least, expand
the most on what he was and did;

and I was there through most of it,
and some was bad, and some was good.
I heard the words, I saw the slips;
I saw him age, and leave too soon.

Like most of us he tried his best,
and slowly left the worst behind.
But honesty and ruthlessness,
ensured he paid a living price

for all the failings he embraced;
a stoic strength I loved him for,
a strength I've tried to emulate,
although free will is still at war.

I have a million memories,
so many stills and movie clips,
but all those long dead witnesses
to scenes they shared, and played, or snipped,

could once have filled the picture out,
for no-one ever really knows
the inner life, its deeps and doubt,
of even those we think are close.

But, there's no doubt, when looking back
we see the same things differently.
Though half a lifetime has elapsed,
I still don't see him distantly:

I carry both the best and worst
of all he was within me yet,
and age and life have slowly burned
the phasic anger I once felt.

His compliments were very rare
- although I always gave my best.
I still remember what and where:
the rock beneath the Raven's nest

for boatmanship that got us through,
the bottom of the Stair Street stairs:
'they couldnae harrow where you've ploo'ed',
and this, 'you could go all the way'

when ringside back at number four,
he stood and watched me sparring with
the sturdy guy who lived next door.
Aird Crescent brings back many things.

Besides first love and childhood spills,
there was that massive pot of soup
he made from Hare just freshly killed,
and no, you've guessed: it wasn't good!

And lifted hands, and thund'rous moods,
the work that never seemed to end,
the orders I could not refuse,
but there were good times even then.

There was a warmth that spread at times
through everything we did as one,
out working in the freezing tide,
or at the table, having fun

to stories from another world;
his memories of friends he'd lost,
or buttered toast he'd lightly burned
when wielding yon long handled fork.

And later, when they'd settled in
that house amongst the trees and stars
I came to see how sensitive
he was, behind that calmed facade.

I'm thankful I still have him near,
in all I am and all he was;
and hold my mother just as dear
as much in mem'ry as in loss.