A clean, pressed handkerchief
placed within the right pocket.
A suit of fine Italian wool set
quietly upon a sky-blue shirt.
A subdued set of hand-sewn
patent black leather shoes.
A freshly shaved ivory face,
below a clean new haircut.
A note to Esther about
love and other things.
A glimpse at what
could have been.
ways of living life;
too much water
under the bridge.
Unable to visit, not
wanting to see him;
he’s not the Father
you idealised, loved.
Years passed, water
passed, life passed;
no time felt right to
go and visit, talk.
You felt it before it
came; a knowing;
a death too quick
for you to digest.
He danced with
on his own; no time
to give anyone time.
You made your peace
with him on the telephone;
he said he has beautiful
children, then the guilt.
Another Ibrat for you to
understand, to learn from;
sitting here looking at
his box filled with ashes.
Another new day, another war ends.
Out with the old, in with the swing.
Another candle burns down, spills;
electric lights would spoil the mood.
Another flapper dress bounces,
someone else does the dancing;
I’m sitting at home, cool as a cat,
relaxing in my fine haberdashery.
I’m waiting for no one, just the cat.
Another cloud bursts, like his heart,
when someone shot him a year ago.
Another dead soldier for the cause,
though I wonder if it was worth it.
Another set of thoughts race by,
as the emotions of widowed bliss
set in, consume the atmosphere,
keep the cat from venturing over.
Another record to spin, as I dance
with his pillow to our joyful song.
A deceptive lover,
all the qualities
so many want.
An afternoon rendezvous.
Stars in your eyes;
no need to feel the
alarm bells ringing.
At your home,
in the garden;
twilight become night.
As the sun fades,
you notice changes;
no longer the person
you expected, wanted.
As the knife falls,
shock fills you;
so much blood
on your precious flowers.
We felt terror and adrenaline running
through those disintegrated streets.
You were so different from the others;
a person with a set purpose, moving.
I felt the weight of endings lingering,
as the bombs started falling heavy.
Running, hiding, killing, surviving;
that’s what we became for so long.
When it’s all over, you said we’d find
a place to call our own once again.
A place far away from the concrete
and chemicals; from the horrors
of what we and the world had become.
I said, “That would be wonderful”,
as the sound of your voice faded.
Seated at the window watching
the way snow falls on red cedars.
Night crept up too quickly,
as the days shorten to hours.
You are never far from my mind
as your tree grows taller, redder.
Snow covers our world of love,
and the red cedars stand tall,
and the red cedars stand tall;
they are a reminder of the blood
and the way you passed from light.
Seated at the window watching the
way snow falls on what was our love.
Howling from the forest,
Wintertime is on the way.
A sea breeze turns wild,
Clouds move overhead.
Woods once silent, now
move in urgency to the sky.
Many crows do fly across the sky,
To show us a Portent of death.