A giant’s hand in mine as we walked
Your long fingers poked back into the sleeve of my jumper
to accommodate their length
I remember nights when she left the house
And peace descended
You read the paper and I scaled your knee
Into that dark rustling space
And we cut out pictures
For the panjandrum book
Or you read us stories
Your voice going up and down

What would you think of our young one
Tall in Tai Kwan Do gear
white clad and obliquely oriental
Or ready for cricket
complete with pads and faceguard,
grave and somewhat pedantic
A family trait

When I passed the age of thirty seven
a life ago now 
it dawned on me how young you were then 
though at that dying time
you seemed so very old
it did not seem too terrible.

© Wendy Robertson