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Death of my father
It was always the way you were going to go, Dad,
After spending most of your life in it,
The pub was the last place
You were seen standing on your own two feet.
Something broke in your head
And - never a ladies' man -
You collapsed in the Miller's
(Not my mother's) Arms
One dark December evening in 1976.
You'd been ailing for some time
And had taken the afternoon off
Every day that hectic pre-Christmas week,
A thing unheard of from you,
The alcoholic workaholic.
Something was clearly wrong but nobody saw it,
Not even your own. Something terminal was
Happening inside your brain.
I think you knew that the end was near.
You looked weak.
You were taking pills on top of the booze.
I never spoke to you all that week.
I just let you snooze.
You went to work on Saturday as usual.
The full day's work broke body and spirit.
You never came home again.
The last I saw of you was when,
They wheeled you down the long dark corridor
On your final journey.
Goodbye. We never really got on,
And for me you were rarely a good father.
Like my love over the years,
My tears soon dried up.
The rest of my life

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