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JAN KEMPTo My Father, M.H.K.My father, who at 82, three yearsand twice my age, can still terrifywith an intermittent Napoleonic barkI went white inside at as a child,a tennis-player with an un-putaway bikeor a huntress become a forlorn rose-bed weeder,ours the normal family sins,now frail and thin, frets againsthis uselessness when his eyes cloud up,his breath coming in fits and startscleaned through an air-pump three times a dayand then on a good one, perambulatesthe lawn with my mother to survey the progressof a troop of new sweet-peas along the trellice,Captain Kemp who wrote back from the warthanking my aunt or granniefor the knitted socks or fruit cake"all the company enjoyed; life's notmuch good here - I'm not grousing,it's the same for all the chaps -and we did see the Pyramids."On the ship back home he gambled for & wonmother's diamond rings, being quick at cardsand billiards; and now, serving her sherryon the silver platter, tells again the storyof the belly-dancer who might have beenour mother. I first heard Gershwin & Cole Porterthrough the glass door, that let you peep atsparkling mothers in strapless party dresses6WESTERLY, No.2, JUNE, 1989