On becoming Father

               


Someone (not Freud, but Jones) said

that you're never grown up 

until you bury your father.

Therefore I'm a vulgar minor fraud. 

I was 56 when he died in New Zealand, 

with Maoris jumping round,

thanking him for God,  

and my brother singing,

and the preacher praying,

and my sisters crying.

But I was saying:

O, Dad was buried earlier,

much earlier. It's 44 years of death

since I was left alone;

don't you see

the blood above the lintel,

the myrtle and hyssop splaying

Congo -

Ghana -

London -

Swansea -

Glasgow -

Dublin - 

Berlin -

Auckland -

Auckland -

Auckland?

The Ten plagues.

The First-born. 


So you know,

as I give

this benediction,

why the wine

in the cup

tastes good?

Gloria in excelsis!

Baruch a'tad adonai.

Aleluyah!

Cwm, cwm Rhondda.

Bread of Heaven?


Sons, I suppose, must be taken,

in the end of this geneology,

as the coming to manhood -

so here they stand: 

Mervyn

Todd

Justin

Ben

and a daughter, Mandy,

found, more or less, in the bulrushes.

(I was her man, but I done her wrong).

Feed me till I want no more!


But what

are these tears

doing here?


Here?


Now?


How does a Dad become?


Ioan Davies

29.v.1995  

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