Too late for that conversation,
the one with a parent about rations
in the War and what it meant to save
for something special, to postpone
your dreams of a new coat or a loan,
to be happy that nobody would starve.

Always the same fate to know yourself
as the man your father shuffled off
who disappointed for not being sure
or sure enough, reluctant to succeed,
to self-promote, to drop the weak-kneed
posture, to command, daring to dare

for a better life beyond a lick of paint,
a garden trim, a herbal patch with mint
wafting subtle notes and a Sunday lamb
that didn't show its face on the plate,
not that I remember, closing the gate
on what I thought I understood of him.

Hugh O'Donnell has published three collections, most recently No Place Like It (Doghouse) and a series of reflection on attentiveness, Songs for the Slow Lane