My Father's Diaries

Beside the desk

on an over-booked shelf

are some of my father’s diaries.

Three slim, faux-leather,

pocket versions of two

golfing years and a

Darlington Diary.

Two are safe to read

with the aid of

a jeweller’s loupe,

though I still feel

like a fence

inspecting

stolen goods.

One is not.

We played golf

he and I,

one June 21^st::

we got lost

on the way:

my dad had

driven there

for a quarter

century.

20 years ago sees

still smaller writing:

I cannot read it all,

just odd words

like ‘forgot’

and ‘remembered’.

The entries end

on December 21^st

- after patchy

months of

hieroglyphs.

I will keep

them safe,

still.