The Loss

for Dad

There is this cold gestation
That leads away from birth;
Slow dripping percolation,
Ash to ash and earth to earth.
Something’s shifting somewhere in me,
Doors closing down inside,
A road no longer travelled:
He’s turned winter and has died.
And he is buried deep within me,
Softly fading into sweet
Blur of summer meadow
Loses focus to concrete.
What’s solid turns to liquid,
Ground caves in at my feet.
All flesh will turn to memory,
All victory defeat.



The photo is Wixford Churchyard where my father is buried- at the insistence of my then stepmother, and against his often-expressed wish to have his ashes scattered at sea. Hilariously, she was upstaged at the funeral by a blonde and elegant mystery woman whom my father had evidently been shagging behind her back.

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