Shirts

I never met your father but
I wear his clothes.

When I ran out of shirts
and fresh socks you climbed

into stacks in high cupboards
finding the checked, lined, folded

left-overs of his life, that smelt
not quite fresh, that looked 

old in the way old magazines
seem old, just a hint of fade 

in their colours, their stories
oddly shaped, no longer immediate.
 
I put them on reluctantly,
after much persuasion,

delighted that most wouldn’t fit
(he was a smaller man than me). 

Then, today I found them in your
photo albums, fashionable

beside Slovak rivers, lying in the sun
at Balaton, proudly statueing themselves

on top of milestones, or most often
grasping, holding you, or nestling 

that deep head-into-stomach physical love
of daughter to father.  And briefly 

I can’t make out why
you should wish anyone else 

inside his shirts.  But it’s only me
they worry, who never met him.

You’re clear there’s no investment left
in cotton, nylon or wool - just rags

once arms that filled the sleeves have gone