Now distanced by two decades at least;
But still too close to call, too close to say,
In some ways - yes - too close for comfort.

You, my father. 
Every day I still remember the many 
Fathers that I knew until the end -
And still know now. 

But mostly I do not know
What really happened:
What it felt like tapping out the Morse
In the rusty tubs that formed the clanking convoys -
Some steam driven, slow, and prey to watching underwater wolves.

But a surface raider got you in the end
Sunk the boat and with it your straw hat
Now both miles deep near Africa.

And later in the crowded camp, 
Trading that jumper, knitted by your mum, for food.

But watching others fading, knowing hope had 
Fallen on the wire, before they did.

But you kept going, on through all those days
To home, to peace, another life and comfort,
With which you told yourself you ought to be content.

And in many ways you were: 
Working reading fishing tennis golf, keeping bees, carpentry 
Playing bridge 
And holidays in south coast towns,
And reciting Shakespeare right out loud

At breakfast, in the bath, on county walks,
In bed.
"Listen to this line, Jerry," And I did.

You singing half remembered silly songs while shaving 
That ended in the middle 
of a line
Then started up again and again
And drove me and Mum half mad.

But that was you.