Knowing the future can stop play

we shun the prophets in favour

of any game of chance.
Dad on his back in the grass relaxed in a way

I don’t remember –

white polo shirt and creased trousers

knees bent to steady my ten-month-old wobble.

Sitting side saddle, my head turned to look at him.

He has removed his shoes and a soccer ball rests

at the toes of one socked foot as if to tease it bare.

His right arm shields his eyes from the sun so that he

can return my look – what is it we see in each other

then and never again? 
Too young to register anything more nuanced

than presence and absence

my sensate world still far from the theatre

of personal pronouns. Fear by any other name.
Maybe he is thinking about sales quotas

or the spin of a story over a pint in the pub

but maybe he is thinking a fine girl to start

and there will be boys too there will be more of each

all good kids who will always look to me this way.

Why would they not? One of them at least

will be the first in my family to make it

all the way to university.

There will be a dog. A cat, if pushed.

A boat for the peace. Guns for provision only.

And my wife, my Rosie, will want for nothing.

Ah, if wishes were fishes and the lads on the ship

could see me now.