My Dad’s a Goldfish – a poem until I get organised

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March has been a bit hectic. I was teaching on a creative writing course the first week and was then organising the launch of my latest book, Castle Douglas Through Time, so there hasn’t been much time to write new Goldfish posts.

I am giving you a poem, which was written some years ago. I remembered it while on the creative writing course when my co-tutor, Margaret Elphinstone, wrote something about not being allowed a bow and arrow because she was a girl. It reminded me of the Goldfish making a bow and arrow for me – he also made me stilts and taught me to walk on them. I was very lucky to have a father who seemed to think being a girl was no barrier to doing or becoming whatever I wanted.

The minister read the poem at the Goldfish’s funeral.

Losing dad
It’s funny how my dad was once
much taller than I;
flower-meadow-1977395_1280shrinking years have brought us closer,
almost level.

Despite his stoop, lines, loss of hair,
he still looks like dad: the man
who gave me names of birds, trees,
stood in our garden pointing out
the Pleiades, Pegasus, Orion’s
three-studded belt;

who helped me gather wild flowers –
red campion, ragged robin, star of Bethlehem –
pressing them between heavy books
for school projects;
who didn’t mind the lawn
littered with obstacles –
clothes horse, kitchen stools –
to his lawnmower’s progress
while my horse and I jumped clear
at White City;
who came to support me on every school sports day;
thought it fine for a girl to climb trees,
never laughed at my dreams,
opened my eyes to the world,
taught me the meaning of friendship and fairness.

But somehow my dad is fading,
empty spaces inside his head though
his voice sounds the same,

as he asks,

for the fiftieth time tonight:
what did you do today?