My Father is Not Dead   My father is not dead. Just yesterday,  at the shopping centre, he walked along an arcade in my direction,  with his round body and white hair and the usual quizzical expression  behind his spectacles; I baulked and hesitated before finding there,      straight ahead, leading away,   no arcade but a floor-to-ceiling  mirror. That old man before me was my reflection; and yet my father  is not dead. His voice, with its edge of subtle irony, comes back whether  or not an effort of memory summons it. With the force of knowledge     …