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Description
I was back in the house where I could feel the melancholy
of the lonesome, crowded west.
The same house but all the memories seemed so far away.
The smell of fresh paint hung heavy in the air,
and the walls I had once scratched and dented were bare.
A film of neglect clung to the books he never let me touch,
“Always end up damaged.” he’d say.
Not realising that love changes things,
makes friendships stronger, give things sentiment.
Those worn covers and creased pages,
not a sign of carelessness but a sign of greatest care.
There were the bottles of wisdom placed in the cellar,
full of learning, but paling to the lesson you taught me.
In reprieve from moving boxes I look out the tall windows,
onto that view you loved so much,
of the snowcapped mountains
over which I’m sure you now watch.
So thanks for doing what you did,
and though I may have been to young to appreciate it
thank you for being the father who quietly loved me.

Description
I was back in the house where I could feel the melancholy
of the lonesome, crowded west.
The same house but all the memories seemed so far away.
The smell of fresh paint hung heavy in the air,
and the walls I had once scratched and dented were bare.
A film of neglect clung to the books he never let me touch,
“Always end up damaged.” he’d say.
Not realising that love changes things,
makes friendships stronger, give things sentiment.
Those worn covers and creased pages,
not a sign of carelessness but a sign of greatest care.
There were the bottles of wisdom placed in the cellar,
full of learning, but paling to the lesson you taught me.
In reprieve from moving boxes I look out the tall windows,
onto that view you loved so much,
of the snowcapped mountains
over which I’m sure you now watch.
So thanks for doing what you did,
and though I may have been to young to appreciate it
thank you for being the father who quietly loved me.