Sue Russell

my father
is the smell of sawed pine
dust in the creases
of his black jeans

I saw a picture of him once
a crooked cocky smile
on his full lips

an axe in one hand
hard hat at a jaunty angle
over haughty eyes

my father
is the smell of morning mountains
released in the soft folds
of his flannel shirt

I heard a story about him once
a saucy schoolboy
full of piss and vinegar

rewired the school bells
released his classmates
an hour early

my father
is the smell of thick black axle grease
etched in fine lines
on his calloused hands

I saw him return once
before the forest darkened
his face gone grey with grief

laughter put to rest
with his best friend
under a fallen tree.