Today is my Dad's birthday, I wrote this sonnet on my breakfast napkin today:
Though I walk through the valley of sepia Mangoes and Bluebells,
The smell of scotch rising from their blooms merely ornery,
I fear no lording nor haunting memory.
For I know beyond the aged exposure my father dwells.
And on the day I miss him most,
a little girl dreams of a scarred, oily and familiar face.
its texture en grained upon the ground she walks, a milepost.
and he never will be
6 years ago