Waning

by Donald Jenkins

Wish I’d listened more, remembered more,
taken in more information,
salvaged valuable fragments,
stored more pieces of broken gemstones.
Wish he could tell me more, just once more.
Like Oliver, I’d ask for more,
not dismiss it as teatime patter,
taste pride in his dad’s adventures.
Wish I knew more than half a story:
how half of Grandad’s head was blown off;
how this scalped soldier lived more years.
How at war – he found love.
Wish I’d grasped more of their fairy tale:
how they met inside the trenches –
did she, a nurse, give him more care
as they got hitched, had lots more children?
Wish I’d known him more; known Dad’s hero
who fought in first, in second – air warden,
his alerting eyes patrolled the heavens,
yelled: Put that light out, there’s more Germans!
More, his face seems from ‘Dad’s Army’.
What is it, real or from the telly?
No more photos, they’re lost in boxes –
I want more than fragile memories.