His nine-year-old loved the nursery, 
and climbing trees 
and her books. 
History and flowers and trains – 
And she loved her father. 
And he thought of her 
as he buffed his black Oxford brogues 
from Loakes in London. 
How they shone, a perfect gleam. 
And he thought of her 
when he ironed his shirt,
how she smiled when he sang her songs
and how she giggled at his jokes.
How he laughed and loved.
And then a tear
when he knotted his tie
and locked the front door,
in preparation for the Christmas mass
in her memory.

Written by Jack Brewis