Turning Into My
Own Father
It’s no use, I can see it now
The mirror does not lie
I find myself looking at a man
That I do not recognise
That cannot be me, yet is alike
And who looks vaguely familiar
And, although I cannot place him
I’m sure he is not a stranger
The fullness of his face
The receding hairline
Ebbing back from his features
In that distinctive pattern
That I know from photographs
The sepia tones
Of many generations
That went before me
His dark and hooded eyes
Looking back towards me
Posing unanswerable questions
His full, uneven lips
His thickening jowls
His jaw-line set heavy
And the slackness of muscles
Etches deeper, longer lines
Within his sagging skin
And tells a story of its own
He returns my stare unblinking
His face unreadable
Implacable and calm
But tired, deadly tired
As if this may be the last time
That he will stand so still
And allow himself to be inspected
His features exposed, picked over
In the ghastly bathroom light
And at last I am forced to look away
No longer able to hold his gaze
And to make the excuse
That I am too busy
To spend more time
On this sad reflection
And I am left to wonder
If his eyes will continue to follow me
Around the room
Long after I have stepped aside
Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2014
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