He fields the familiar questions;  

his birthday and children contemplate presents.

One year they composed a photo’d mosaic,

a diary from warmness to winter’s decaying:

the feeding of bottles and reading of stories,

his hair set in bobbles, the family guffawing;   

teaching the beautiful game in the garden,

patiently building sandcastles and snowmen;

watching barbarians ruin his labours

as youngsters mutate and become teenagers.

His long dark waves are whitened and thinning;

this worshipping congregation has risen

as if all sins were forgot or forgiven

and he a declining church or religion

desirous of presence and honest emotion,

receiving lip-service and tiny gift tokens.

.