My Father was a big fan of the westerns
And contemptuous of the world
And so took it on in a sixty year shoot-out
That I'm sure he thought he'd win.
We sat watching Red River.
It was his favourite film with John Wayne,
His hero standing tall,silhouetted against the sky.
And yet to me he always looked wrong on a horse
And my Father would have looked ridiculous
But although small in stature
His presence would fill the room.
Sitting next to him I became bold
And dared to snuggle up to him.
Resting my head on his chest, I listened
Fascinated by his heartbeat and quick breathing,
Trying to discover what made this man tick.
Til the day of his final breath
I never knew the answer.
Sometimes even now, I look at the silver screen
And staring the Duke straight in the eye,
I ask him if he knows.
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