A Seaman's Daughter

My father was in Africa
the day that I was born.
He sent us prints of native men,
whose heads were closely shorn.

He traveled next to Pakistan
when I turned sweet sixteen,
and sent a postcard air direct
of lands I’d never seen.

He sailed to every continent.
From mine he left too soon.
Wrote of dolphins in the twilight,
and halos on the moon.

He lived his life as gypsies would
in cultures far and wide.
A sailor’s right to wander far
not questioned, though I tried.

In my young mind, this man was God.
with features as unclear.
I tried to see his weathered face
reflected in my mirror.

As years went by I wondered why
he always seemed at sea
when waiting home for his return
I missed him wistfully.

My father was in Singapore
the day that I was wed.
My heart cried out that just this once,
he might be here instead.

Written May 2001