Poems by Roni Moore
My Father’s Shaving Brush
Hidden in my jewellery box,
There’s an old shaving brush.
Every time I look at it,
Back to my childhood I rush.
The brush belonged to my father,
He received it in the war.
I think about the things he did,
The sights I know he saw.
My father died some years ago,
But it doesn’t seem so far away.
I’d watch him shaving with that brush,
It’s as clear as it was yesterday.
He’d stand in front of the mirror,
And look at me and grin.
His face all white with lather,
I felt so safe with him.
The brush is the only thing,
I have of his you see.
It may be old and balding,
But it means the world to me.
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