He was always there, my father,
constant as gravity.
And photogenic too,
with scrubbed square hands
and a pugnacious Roman profile.
He looked just like Henry XIII.
His surgery was his kingdom
and he ruled over his patients
with firm benevolence
and a twinkle in his pale blue eyes.
As children we didn't see much of him
- mum made sure of that -
but he was always there,
dependable as the Herald Sun.
He adored mum with fierce,
uncomplicated tenderness
and they fought long and hard
(mostly about me) .
He used to stamp his feet
(literally)  over trivial things,
yet when the final diagnosis came,
he took it in his stride.
Latterly he grew thin and grey
and lost his colonel's moustache,
but he always enjoyed his glass of red
and watched the Channel 2 news every night.
My last picture of him
was a pair of pretty feet
at the end of a hospital bed...