In the distance, when foxes call at night, I would hide under the bed clothes
I’d make the world disappear save for some fingers, head and nose.
The steady march of my father off to bed the floor boards played the same song each night
Until the march became a shuffle and his life became a fight
Some sounds went all un-noticed like the days, the weeks, the life
Thousands of days become pressed into thoughts, work, children, Europe, wife
But then the years can’t hold back everything try as memory might
Hold back thoughts of wheat fields in the distance, when foxes call at night.
The nostalgia is beautifully expressed.
Thank you for your lovely comments.