When I received a letter from my Dad,
Saying he didn't want to meet,
I decided to go and confront him.
I wasn't going to admit defeat.

'I told you in my letter not to come.
I thought I made that perfectly clear!
It would never work. I don't even know you, '
Were not the words I'd hoped to hear.

'It's too late, ' he told me.
'You've got your life. I've got mine.'
He was shocked when I told him
I'd lost my Mum in an accident when I was nine.

My brother, Luke, asked me to stay in touch.
He was begging me to stay,
But there seemed nothing between me and Dad,
And I thought it best for me to go away.

When I was small, we went for walks.
It was always Dad's hand I wanted to hold.
It kept me from falling.
It kept me from the cold.

I was sitting in the car ready to leave,
But took one last look out the window.
Dad was stood there. I went to him.
'Don't go, ' he pleaded. 'Please, don't go! '

As he held my hand in his
For the first time in thirty years,
I found it totally impossible
To hold back the flood of tears.

I put my head on his shoulder,
And we held each other tight.
This was the moment I'd dreamed of,
And now I was convinced the moment was right.

by Angela Wybrow

Comments (7)

This lovely little poem brings back such fond memories of my childhood. It was in one of two books, one blue, one pink which were entitled, I think, Tales for Little Folk. I remembered the first two lines and I am happy to rediscover it here and to know it is by such a renowned author.
As a child this poem was one of my favorites. Whenever I was ill I too was sent to bed with my toys and loved to create scenes. Many years later it was the inspiration for a painting I did that I called child building his own world. That painting was exhibited in a number of N.Y. galleries and at a special exhibition at Howard University. My niece owns it now. I still love to read that delightful poem that brings back so many childhood memories.
I visited my young grandson in his sickbed this morning and this lovely poem came to mind. I could not remember all of it but have just mailed it to him.
I remember my second English lesson at grammar school when we were asked to bring in our favourite poem to read aloud to the class. I was the only child in the class who came from a council estate with a father who had spent his life working in a factory, the other children had fathers who were doctors, solicitors, headmasters etc you get the picture! We didn't have many books but I did still have a board book with a colourful cover and broken spine which contained just 8 poems, The Land of Counterpane was my favourite - I liked the picture too! I remember turning bright red as I looked at the other children standing up and reading poems from Shakespeare, Browning, Tennyson, some from leather bound books, and here was I standing up reading my battered little board book and hearing the other children giggle and seeing the teacher smirk. I couldn't remember who wrote this poem and it was the last time I ever looked it as I throw the book away on the way home, but here it is and 49 years down the line I can read it again and actually enjoy it and be proud that at least I read out a poem from a renowned poet, even if I didn't realise that at the time!
I love this poem. It is only one of two poems I remember my granddad liking. Everytime I read it it brings back good memories. I must say this is my favorite poem.
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