before my Father died
he combed beaches for stones
picked for surface smoothness
colour or shape
i picture him in my mind’s eye
at Anstey’s Cove
pockets half filled with finds
why he decided to apply
clear varnish, allow time to dry
glue a few chosen ones together
graded by size, escapes me
i haven’t a clue
perhaps he knew his days
were numbered and already
encumbered with that disease
which killed him, on a whim
he instructed his creative side
to shout out
years have passed by
i sigh as i look at unstuck remains
in my hands i hold the relics
of my Father’s last days