Emptied
There was a tin of Swarfega
under the kitchen sink –
its opening the notification
of Dad’s tinkering
His wrenched weekend battles
with ageing Austins and Fords –
as an amateur mechanic –
were his ongoing wars
He was sometimes frustrated
by metrication’s foray –
and I was equally stumped
by his imperialist’s ways
He became a man of peace
as he stripped his oiled guns
with no sprung swear words –
loud expletives unsung
He would put his bearded cheek
onto the cold wood and weigh
the heft of barrel loadings
and teach his lungs to wait
The engineering of Brownings
he’d refit with no complaint –
in his hands and soft breaths –
he exhaled and taught aim
At the farm – with my boys –
I put up targets with care –
There I taught them how to shoot
and shared my Dad’s zephyr