It is the time of year that my stomach starts to churn towards my dad.

260 miles and Nine years away from his bodily presence my thoughts intensify.

Ordinarily I think of him

during my daily chores

(his contributions to our house sinks deep into its very foundations)

during my ablutions

(while unknowingly filled with cancer of the spine, and bowels and internal organs he tried to put my mind at rest by saying that all he needed was ‘a big shit’ and after that ‘all will be fine, you just see son, hey?’)

but in a few weekends time it will be the anniversary of that visit, and already the tensions inside have begun to rise.

That visit.

That Essex trip and his unusual, early September request for us all to pick up the fallen apples in his tree filled side garden.

Remembering that vision of him standing half smiling, half not, patting his tummy and grimacing while watching us scrabble within the wet long grass.

Knowing now that it was indeed the  strange understated start of his 2 month decline towards a mid November death.

During those two months we were largely apart

( ‘but son there’s nowhere here for you to stay,’)

And I began three poems;

‘Loving until his last,’

(which started after a phone call while he was in hospital. Now removed from the blog for reasons of possible impact on others)

‘Upon visiting my dying dad,’


‘Meeting my un-metered form,’

(after spending time together while he was in an Essex Chapel of Rest).

With alarming slowness I guess all three are finally finished and ready to be set free…..but then again maybe not