To my father
Like a host who is waiting for his uninvited guest,
my seed now seems to have a purpose of its own.
Some spirit being has come to rest,
in the sandless soil where I was sown.
Life, distance, everything is worn by time,
as the generations form a giant rock
which I - through life - am bound to climb
and leave my heartbeat at the top.
Buffeted by storms and calms that rage.
Fear and self-doubt come in gusts.
Perhaps these howl through every age
to tear me from my grip; your trust?
You are a ledge over which I strain to peek,
as this child nudges at my feet.
[Sonnet from a collection by S.C.N. Pockley]