Dad

John Crook

 1.
 You carry me on your shoulders 
 through the dark
 and explain to me 
 the stars.
 The owl in the old oak 
 calls in the night.
 You chuckle, joyful
 in that mysterious bird.
 One day you received a stuffed fox
 and, to everyone's horror,
 set it up in the hall.
 You wanted to put tiny
 light bulbs in its eyes and make it see.
 Later the owl came
 to sit above the grandfather clock
 striking the hours
 with its hoots.
 
 When I was six
 and staying at the big house,
 the Blue Room I remember,
 you came and slept in the great bed
 next to mine.
 Before dawn I lay awake
 a little sick or something,
 you took me into your sheets
 and together we watched
 the light come.
 
 Dawn, never so mysterious,
 never again so filled with rapture,
 your explanations of the rising sun,
 the globe that spun, the east-west
 meaning, time and openings
 of day and night revolvings.
 When the sun came
 striking the gauze curtains 
 and filtering into the room 
 I was one with the planet's turning 
 lying in your arms.
 
 2.
 Long after the uncertainties began
 I still went to church with you.
 It seemed there was nothing else to do 
 and anyway there was love.
 Stumbling hesitatingly through the Creed
 one day I heard you say
 "- in so far as it can be believed "
 and my heart leapt
 letting go all fears of losing love,
 thrilling me with the vast courage 
 of that great doubt.
 I sang the hymns so high
 into the rafters I think 
 the tiles moved.
 
 JHC
 25.12.93