All These Years
All these years when we imagined him dead
and had his ashes in an urn to prove it
(as though ashes ever proved anything
except that there had been a fire)
he had only slipped away through the smoke
and hangs about behind you in the kitchen
or stands at the bed while you sleep, teasing dreams
into your head. Every now and then you glimpse
his faded cap in a crowd, bobbing like a cork
in the sea, always too far away to follow.
The sight of him, loafing perhaps near a corner,
does not excite any more; too many times
he has turned himself into a huddled shadow
or even a silly junk heap in the alley. Sometimes
he startles at night, calling, but when you wake,
as if to mock your instant thought of answering
he sounds again like some cat owning the fences.
But it's all him. He was like that before.
Whenever you expected him, he did not come.
Whenever you spoke to him, he did not listen.
Whenever you thought you felt his arms about you
it was only the bedclothes.
Like it.
Father?
Thank you.
Husband.
Powerful.
Even more thanks!
Have more?
I think I'll pass the compliments back to you for
all your very evocative word pictures. So thank you
for those, I enjoyed them.
Olivia
Thanks Olivia.
Now if the rest of the world could get along like we do...it's all
gravy.
Enjoy.