MY Son . . . . .

I found my son or rather he just found me,
slim, good looking, like the way I used to be;
I went away, how could I leave him without a dad,
it's never too late to make up for being so bad.

I remembered my dad, black wavy hair and pipe,
always there for me, attentive, a caring archetype,
we didn't always get on, he'd take out the cricket bat,
give me a lecture, admonish me exactly where I sat.

Wind back the tape - say that I didn't leave after all, 
there for you, standing by, watching you grow tall, 
packing your lunch for school, giving pocket money,
shouting at you to get up the pitch, looking at me funny.

There is no re-wind, I'll always love you in my own way,
maybe I'm not so bad after all, no matter what they say.