Your eyes are what I think about
and how even in the cracked gray photo
on my mother's dresser they twinkled
as if you were laughing at a joke that I cannot hear.
I was not even a glimmer in my father’s eyes
when you were struck by a car
as you stood quietly beside the old Roman road,
probably lighting your pipe.
I wonder what kind of father you were, and if you played
with your little children or if you were always working,
caring for the Highfields farm;
I think you must have been kind,
for all your children had that way with them,
and Granny could not have loved a mean man.
Thin you were, a man of muscle and bone and twinkling eyes,
too early laid beneath a heart-shaped stone.
I stood by your grave and tried to conjure your image in my mind,
digging deep to find some part of you living on in me.