Memory of My Father -Patrick KavanaghEvery old man I seeReminds me of my fatherWhen he had fallen in love with deathOne time when sheaves were gathered.That man I saw in Gardiner StreetStumble on the kerb was one,He stared at me half-eyed,I might have been his son.
And I remember the musicianFaltering over his fiddleIn Bayswater, London.He too set me the riddle.
Every old man I seeIn October-coloured weatherSeems to say to me"I was once your father."
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