Dad was keen on a fine edge
he detested bluntness.
His tools had to be sharp
whether carving the Sunday joint
turning a wooden bowl
digging a trench for spuds
dead-heading roses
or trimming the hedge.
The smell of roast beef
mingled with the tart aroma
of shorn privet described Sunday.
Dad was as straight as a die
he would never make a diplomat.
Not for him, the turning of a blind eye.
He saw the world in black and white
not a grey, vague in-between
He could not be economical
with the truth.
People were either honest
or dishonest.
Tools were either blunt or sharp.
His keenness lives on.
Richard Foster
June 2018
*A poem for Father’s Day. RIP John Foster (1925-2013)
Poetry 