Right here, below these hallowed stones,
lies buried deep a dead man’s bones.
(My father’s, if you’d care to know)
for him, I tend the flowers that grow.
I cultivate each tender bloom
to grace his long-neglected tomb.
For when I lost him as a child,
some said that I went weird and wild,
grew cold as steel and wouldn’t grieve
or wear my heart upon my sleeve,
like mum and gran and sister, Sue
and all the other crying crew.
And I would never come to weep
beside the grave where dad did sleep.
Instead, I’d while away the time
composing raw, romantic rhyme
for girl, who loved me when he left;
(became the bliss of boy bereft!)
while dad, forgotten underground
I left to sleep in peace profound.
Right here, this checkered child does wait;
‘been fifty years; is it too late
to tend these bonnie blooms that grow?
Too late for tender tears to flow?