Caught in the Act

You used to sing sometimes    in your man-cave under the house        when we were playing outside: It’s only words and humming       and words are all I have -            a song not meant for six-year-olds; You had more than words,       even back then I could sense,            I knew somehow there was more: The look in your eyes and     delight clear in the wrinkles        at their tired edges of love whenever you got home     from work  when I surprised you then,         or now in this moment now here, busy painting a name, Paul or David, I can’t recall    on the trailer of a tricycle I couldn’t see;        it was for some kid in the parish. Only later, much later did I understand    Christmas was a poor one that year;        those tricycles were brand new we thought wondering how Santa managed the chimney    so narrow; the struggle needed that beer on        the mantelpiece which explained the lipstick on the glass; or was it blood you both    shared in the silent poverty of faithful trust in . . .        the more, for whom no words are adequate? That tenderness, Dad, was the more,    a gift beyond any tricycle new or otherwise;        fatherly love imbued all through and divinised. Just as well I can write, for like you    I couldn’t say without welling up with tears;        and words are all I have of gratitude and love for you, yes, but more for the Mystery    by whom we both share life and love still;        and while I paint with only words in a poem crafted in the skilful creativity, yes,    bequeathed by a mother’s artful talents,        all I hope is to be also caught in the act…of love!