Our father
took us to the park yesterday and
played football with us,

and died at five o’clock this afternoon.

His name was Harold.
He was bald,
but he had been growing a hairy belly.

Three nights ago,

he’d started to read Charlotte’s Webb to us.
Mummy says that he’s still here, that
we can read to him

before we go to bed tonight,

that he would want us to do that.
Mummy says that, from Heaven, he can see
everything, that

he will be watching us while we sleep

and every morning when we make our beds,
or go to school, or
dip our bread in our soup at lunchtime.