father poem

do the boys and girls still go
i make my shroud, but no one knows
my mother taught me that every night
i walk down the garden paths
when a deed is done for freedom
still her gray rocks tower above the sea
let me be sad
among the smoke and fog of a december afternoon
i loathed you
by the rude bridge
i had over-prepared the event
brief on a flying night
i love my life, but not too well