Arm yanked by taunt lead,
The dog heaves.
You reply with unsteady feet.

In the four years of our silence
a lion he has become
as you, his shadow
trail in the wake of his eagerness.

Each morning, awaiting your clamber
at the base of the stairs
his new morning sense of bewilderment
begs with a tail
that swishes specks of dust-
dead butterflies dancing
your demise.
We skim stones down by the river
you fall short by three
the ripples from your stone
smooth out long before the muddy bank
I hated losing to you, jealous of your technique;
how easy it came to you,
each silent bounce of stone
upon water that hardly flinched.

When we return to the house
You ask me to “put the kettle on”
Sinking into a chair
That welcomes you with a slight puff.

Vincent James Turner

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/a-day-with-my-father/