Spring breezed in steely silver and damp on Fathers Day.
No apostrophe required.
Youngest ones walk early with their Dads from beach
to grass to sand repellent tap and through the pool.
Pool gate challenge.
One hand in each hand. A gift their Dad will take
out and inspect every day if he knows now its future value.
Because memory fades.
Watching them eat; hearing them bicker; loving them
Reviewing the days.
I remember them running on the beach with poodles.
and rinsing their feet at the outdoor shower at Dada’s.
No poetry then.
and the pine forest and the barbecued sausages and the
marshmallows toasted on sticks and the black lab.
Heart and head full of boys and dogs;
and that lass over there.