Papa I’ve wandered

Far from the mountains where the eagles would fly

Far from the forests where the winds rushed and died

I remember the rivers carried yesterdays rain

and the sounds of the waterfall calling my name

But how where your hands shaped

as they reached for mine

To catch me as I stumbled or to ease an incline

how were your arms held

did their swing match your stride

You were tall, I remember

with knapsack well strapped

on your green corduroy jacket

and your Irish tweed hat

I remember your eyes as they peered down at me

with a gleam and a twinkle

when a tall tale you’d tell

I’d sit hunched on a bolder as you’d weave your spell

There were trips to the city

that you loved so well

head back and laughing at the Village art fair

Awestruck and mocking as we looked  at their wares

the fountain was offering a drink to the sky

you were comfortable there and with you so was I

But Papa, I’ve wandered and lost your in form

So I sit and write memories

in this way I mourn

for the days in the mountains where the eagles would fly

for the times in the city where the fountains met sky

for the moments we spent, that came to an end

for the years filled with days, hours and moments

not spent together, since then