Pres De La Mine- (Almost Mine) Poem by John Scully

You stepped down, a lion
singular among the crowd,
you had your Terai Hat
set angular, in a state of grace
from your Himalayan days
of postcards sent
once a year post haste,
playing kiss chase
with my eyes and face,
while posing Renaissance style
that made the wait worthwhile,
while all at Gare Montparnesse turned to look,
my box brownie, my colouring book
ready for the photo shot.

'Best wishes' it said,
'with love and kisses, Papa.'
Found years later
hidden after you had gone,
a passe-partou't,
a masterpiece in tempera
of watercolour tears
as we drank coffee in Moliere's.

You laughed that day like Valentino
at passers-by who smiled at one so small
with camera shy her hand in his,
as you boarded the train for Saint Denis,
and by shutter click, I closed up
and set the date and time,
to see my father, my partner in crime,
for a day, when he was almost mine.