To My Father

David Cooke

So I send these words out, Faltering, along an unlit pathThough what words now
Can urge your ghost
To break its final silence, Terse enough whilst living?
Or what do I know
Of that life you led
The years before I was born
When, with a minimal nostalgia, You quit that Sligo outback
To skip through towns
In a country at war?
A potato-picking nomad,
A grafter, you biked flat miles
All across the Eastern Counties. Your son,
And now a father, too,
I have taken your place
To resemble you more and more:
Born one country and a world apart.


Page 75, Poetry Ireland Review Issue 22