I’m not ready to say farewell

to the boy

from Selly Park

of integrity and standards

that far outweigh my own,

and yet I know he last said

goodbye to me in his own voice

on a distant date

that I didn’t remark upon at the time

but which now has been replaced with a softer,

unknown tone to which is filled with love

and smiles,

but which isn’t my Dad’s.

He looks like the one who hoisted me on his shoulders,

who cheered me on

from the tenth row

of The Trinity Road as I collected Ron

Saunder’s autograph to match that of  Tony Book’s…

Who

despite not seeing the value of art

bought a ticket

to a play in Bicester

just to see me preform,

and then gave consent with a grudging shrug

and secret smile that I

wasn’t supposed to see…

Who

stormed to Cooper School field

to confront the five lads

who had battered me

senseless,

leaving me almost blind in one eye,

and who only saved havoc’s reign,

because I lied when I saw his face

through blood and bone

and said I couldn’t see who it was, refusing to point

them out so Dad didn’t lose his job…

Who

spent weeks with me on

the American Road

and the unseen memories of his own father

in the Canadian rusted town of Hamilton,

revisiting an earlier journey of my own

and to which nothing was lost in translation

and feeling, and mutual freedom

to be pals, not just a dad and his boy…

Those memories remain

in me now, a soul’s burden

to carry, to revisit often

so they don’t disappear just yet

into the thin veil

of the dimly lit

and shaded view…

but ones I want to share with the man

from Selly Park who gave

me his name

out of love.

Ian D. Hall 2025