One for 'Fathers Day'

Would that it were

Would that it were always like this:

child-like hand safe at harbour in Father’s grip,

viewing tomorrow’s distant clouds -

daubs in an ocean of blue.

A single wavelet gentle of touch

ambling over the shingled  hem

of the sea’s rippling garment.

Grips change.

In forgetful moments, I won’t need anchorage

and drift in the seductive undulations of life.

Then squalling, darker, clouds of reality

obscure the horizon,

reassuring touch of sand

is beyond the reach of frightened toes.

Then it’s not the clasp of child

but Father’s firm grasp

that brings the treasure to safe haven.