My father's clothes

You are waiting for me in the wardrobe 

your slouched shape persists in wool and cloth

a form that you once inhabited

your old green cardigan, now touched with moth.

Form without breath, for they have vanished

your thick glasses, waiting by the bed

your sherry, your daily crossword puzzle

Lives of the Engineers – the books you read.

Like your spirit, they will rise to the attic

your wedding photo, that lived on the TV

boy at boarding school holding ball solemnly

your army beret, angled jauntily

Your precise rituals, never broken

are even imprinted on your old skin

your blurred initials, APH, that were placed

neatly, for the care home, on your cardigan.

Why do I dislike to dress smartly?
It could hardly be be to piss you off.
You barely seemed to notice me.
My big days, it seems, were not big enough.

Carefully, you avoided the foreground.
There was no sense of occasion for you
and yet, often, when I am slopping around
with no shame, splattered with paint and glue

I am touched by our strange similarity.
Hanging in the wardrobe, you are still there
I can breathe you in, step into your shadows
your slowness – the language that we shared.

Our arguments have faded into history
you would not have noticed the irony
of my reluctance to wear smart clothes.
You only had one suit, dad. So do I.

As I box up your stuff for charity
I can hear your slow, patient voice
and I remember what you showed me
when I am sawing a piece of wood.