The slightly rutted road winds in,
The duck pond's on the left.
With bags of stale bread in hand,
birds won't be left bereft.
geese, ducks, seagulls, ravens black,
all gather where we stand.
So close but not quite brave enough
to eat out of our hand.
The first stop that we always make,
on our way to see my dad.
Majestic trees filter the light
and warms the stones that rise.
Those plots with plaques attached to ground,
seldom catch our eyes.
But those with sculpted angels
and benches there for rest,
grace the graves of those in life,
who had the very best.
The road winds round,
here up, there down.
I'm searching for the tree,
the one that I stood next to,
the day my dad left me.
So many years have passed since then,
but still that day I see,
and that devastated fifteen year old
girl that once was me.
I see the tree,
the road winds round,
until I spot his piece of ground.
Overgrown with grass and weeds,
impossible to read his name.
I start to trim away debris.
His name I softly say out loud.
He isn't there, this much I know,
yet peace within me starts to grow.
A spirit close, but I can't see,
my father watching over me.
We talk a while, I tell him things,
I never got the chance to share.
The breeze it stirs...
Maybe angel wings?
He's gone and yet...
I feel him there.
Then his grandaughters he never met,
take a picture so they won't forget.
The road winds round,
we say goodbye.
With heavy heart I turn and sigh.
The slightly rutted road winds out,
the duck pond's on the right.
Darkness falls, we leave this place,
to the spirits in the night.
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