OUR LAST.

A FATHER CONVERSES WITH HIS DEAD SON

It is you, my son,
my first thoughts think on
at dawn's dull light;

it is you I hope to see
in dark dreams at night,
it of you my last thoughts hold

as I drift to my drugged sleep;
memories of you
I hold and keep;

years of yore,
of childhood days,
holidays and day

to day visits,
wishing things were
as they were before.

It is loss of you,
my son, that wounds
my heart, that tears

open and apart,
that final time
we spoke, solemn,

you in pain,
no light heartedness,
no humour, no joke.  

It is of you my son,
my mind returns to,
and the loss reminds me

of our mortal state,
moment to moment
ticking by, taking

for granted each day
we live, each person
we love, each kiss,
each exchange
of words we cast,
not thinking each
may be our last.