Simon Beechinor

Simon Beechinor Poems

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I'm a 'memoir' poet)

The Best Poem Of Simon Beechinor

No Kiss Goodnight

I sat beside my father's old arm chair,
As he read Treasure Island aloud to me;
Each page he turned was like a lapping wave,
Each chapter read, a flood or ebbing tide.

The library book smelled as old books do;
I smelled Flint's hapless shipmate, Billy Bones,
Awash in Widow Hawkins' untaxed rum,
And tasted gun smoke on the salt-laced air.

The rain dripped on the windowpane outside,
I held my breath in mortal dread with Jim,
As Blind Pew tapped along the cobbled lane,
Steeped in menace, searching for old Flint's map.

He closed the book with a resounding thud,
Like cannon shot that barely passed me by,
I stood up from the floor beside his chair,
And leaned toward him to kiss him goodnight.

For what fault of mine did he push me away?
'You're too old for kisses now, child, to bed! '
The room turned as cold as a Channel fog,
And grief held fast this troubled boy's heart.

My bewildered child's mind churned with doubt,
Would I know my stern father's touch again?
I swiftly ran to bed to hide my tears;
Would poor young Jim be lost and hurt like me?

I made an earnest vow at that young age,
That no child of mine would suffer thus;
No child would want for this father's love,
They'd need no map; my love would not be hid.

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