The Strand* Poem by John F. McCullagh

I saw my father’s face last week,
across the gulf of time..
I chanced upon a photograph
That you had left behind.

His hair shock white, his shoulders large
from years of heavy toil,
His eyes pale blue, his hands were rough
from working with the soil.

I thought I saw his face again
Across a crowded room
It must have been a trick of light-
a product of my gloom.

I saw my father’s face last night-
within a vivid dream.
We walked familiar streets of home
in forty year old scenes.

Long vanished homes and people
paraded through my head.
I did not choose to break the mood
or remind him he was dead.

I took my father’s hand last night
We walked a moon lit shore.
The beach’s sand was coarse and black
the surf a subdued roar.

The land behind was all I know,
But the Ocean beckoned me
So together, hand in hand,
We stepped into the sea.

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*• a poetic term for a shore (as the area periodically covered and uncovered by the tides)