Sketch by Andy Eycott

I see him 

through the camera lens, 

ghost of my father, 

in a moment caught out of time 


I see him 

reflection in a mirror, 

as age creeps into the lines, 

the story held in my image 


I didn’t see him 

in the youth of me and now 

not all the time, just in glimpses, 

like a sketch in one of his books 

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