I think of my father
‘s breath trailing from his lips
backlit by the cool November sun
His cheeks are ruddy
and his eyes teared
by the hard northern wind
His neat row of medals
is pinned to the twill
of the tough black winter coat
its collar up against his
clean shaven jowels
He still had some Brasso
that he had used to burnish
those medals that he would
not speak of
His lips purse against the cold
About riverwriter
Poet, playwright, duplicate bridge player, website designer, cottager, husband, father, grandfather, former athlete, carpenter, computer helper for my friends, theatre designer, backstage polymath, retired teacher of highschool English, drama, art, a baritone singer in a barbershop quartet, who knows what else?
wordcurrents is on Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/wordcurrents/
Doug also has a Facebook page, "Incognitio", related to his novels.
