Sunday, 12 August 2012

My Fathers Pipes

There is a scent that lingers in the cold air
If you follow it you will find it comes from over there by the old chair
On the table top a rack of pipes
Red and white and green; One a corncob and one with black stripes

There is a tin of aged rum flavored tobacco
When I pull the top away I can still see the thumb push from the old fellow
I recall how his strong fingers would tug at it with fondness
The bowl filled slowly, carefully; and plugged with an artful press

I settled myself into his chair for the first time in years today
He’s been dead now better than a decade
With some reverence of my own
I lifted a pipe from the rack and placed it against lips it had never known

From the bowl a puff of scented smoke
Brought images, sleeping memories suddenly awoke
The big long calm man
One I know that had never raised his hand

The one who with a single look, those steel grey eyes
Would wash away any notion of telling a lie
He was a thoughtful man who knew the value of the past
The one who taught me not to live in it but move forward fast

Fishing trips, ski trips and hiking trips.
Car trips, museum trips and school trips.
My Father and I traveled well together when he was alive
I remember he wouldn’t spoil a trip by rushing to arrive

Accelerate when you double clutch, you drill a well like this son
Tie a fly with a loop and eight twists, double back before it’s done
You can carry one more concrete block boy, you can,  and grab a bag of sand
Walk around the car young man get the door and give the lady your hand

Sitting quietly with a smoking pipe
Giving into the calm and seeing things from a reflective light
It’s the one last thing my father could teach me
Consider the just done day and tomorrow will be easier to see
Gunner ©