Fathersong

Low sun slants over monitor onto men wrapped to ground
like mould-warps, steadfast face the long leap
guns glad to be here, death have faced:
Grant at Vicksburg, Wellesley at Talavera.
A paper warrior watches me warily from the bookshelf.

Origami a template from my Grandad
dotted lines even-up, chest-out,straight and true,
an avatar to a funeral in Berlin, the face of battle.
"Come home on your shield or with it."
Anything but a male nurse's uniform
starched whiteness, green lapels, fob-watch.

The warrior steels himself for scissors.
Loose pile fern-spike on my floor
transit camp to MIND
a shedding this autumn day.
We hammer stakes into the ground
for a six-foot fence
so now I see his eyes peer
over glasses slipped on his nose,
his face screwed up in thought
strong arms heft bodies.