English poetry

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My Father’s Hats

My Father’s Hats

Sunday mornings I would reach
High into his dark closet while standing
on a chair and tiptoeing reach
Higher, touching, sometimes fumbling
the soft crowns and imagine
I was in a forest, wind hymning
through pines, where the musky scent
Of rain clinging to damp earth was
his scent I loved, lingering on
Bands, leather, and on the inner silk
crowns where I would smell his
Hair and almost think I was being
held, or climbing a tree, touching
The yellow fruit, leaves whose scent
was that of clove in the godsome
Air, as now, thinking of his fabulous
sleep, I stand on this canyon floor
And watch light slowly close
on water I can’t be sure is there.



Poem My Father’s Hats - Mark Irwin
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