My Fathers Jacket
Here you are again she said
Retrieved from the pile
Reserved for charity shop donations
For that is where she found me
Wearing my father’s old baggy jacket
Is that so strange tho I ask
Even now the taste and the very
Scent of him is dear to me
This is where his essence lingers yet
This is where I feel and hear him sometimes
As my body warms the fibres
Safe in these old Tweed threads of his
Here in these so very hugged
And well worn sleeves I ache hungrily
Then cry as a child might cry
Unashamedly and with so many
Unpunctuated sobs
Then as both hands are well and truly lost
In deep side pockets
A long forgotten handkerchief
Surfaces to light and usefulness again
Wiping tears with fingertips I find myself
Wondering how many wishes were once
Held fast in that single knot
Tied by his own hand near the corner
Next to the blue silk of his monogram
Where I still sense him near