Seeds Of Time Poem by Ian Keenan

Your fires, how they brightly burned,
My father;
Timbered by the straining
Of your back,
Biking endlessly,
A martyr to the railway clock,
Lost in shifts but -
None-the-less - the maker of our toys,
The toffee-man,
The cobbler of our soles,
Too soon, too old,
And we too big to hold,
Waving in the mirror,
Small enough for tears.

Though your singing now has faded,
Not your laughter,
Ringing still about your children's
Children;
Pride of Sirehood in your eyes,
Our every small achievement
Cherished, paving now the way beneath
The arching triumph of your years.

And while at times you falter,
Mem'ry out of step with time or,
Walking, stepping falsely,
Never is your love a question
In our minds;
For God is in your heart,
However life or words have lied,
Your heart in God and actions,
Sweetly meant, misunderstandings
Now redundant,
You forever sown
Within the endless
Seeds of time.