Reflection

A line erupts, then another and another,
In a cracked, sweat stained mirror,
I see my father,
He emits from every pore.
Not a fragmented reflection,
But an actual replica.

Each morning I drown
The young boy,
In his place
A man rises like an annoyed crocodile.

From fresh face,
Through the creases of painful reality,
I am turning into he.

He is strong, but never shows it,
Intelligent, handsome and witty,
But he hides it all behind a tired expression
Of dreams he didn’t realise;

A red MG midget,
Energetically and vividly he remembers.
A black Mercedes Benz,
He is not so fond of.

Kirkby bucket bangers
Versus Shillsbury Avenue,
Council house
Versus Privately owned.

His Sunday morning release,
The zeal of a 50/50 tackle
Ebbs away with time.

I wish to have known him when he was 22,
A man of action, passion and faith.
What would he think of me?
Without hope, ideas and soul.

He, the epitome of his father, my Granddad.
He too, a brilliant man, raised on a diet of bread an’ drippin’
I miss seeing the two of them together.

Time changes all, to the present from the cot,
They have both lived. I have not.

Liam Shirley