My father wore black or grey trousers
Which hung, unstylish, from a thin waist.
He was comfortable, with skin that held the sun.
He had breathed unspoiled air
And could speak of the feel of fieldmice
Running over his leathery hands
While he gently tended a garden.
His eyes were sunk from a hard-travelled life.
He died without ceremony,
Leaving no gap in the history of the world,
But a great hole in mine.