WHO KNOWS WHEN.

A FATHER TALKS TO HIS DEAD SON.

I am always wanting
to reach out
and touch you,
to sense you
near again,
to feel your body,
Stoic and strong.

To see your
warm eyes gazing,
to hear your voice
once more,
the humour  
and wit expressed;
your wise words.

This my son,
this all again,
to unsew this darkness,
let in light,
to push away
this seemingly
perpetual night.

I am always wanting
to feel your arm
around me again,
to hear your laughter
and see your smile.

To touch you,
the real you,
that my son,
my dead son,
is what I wish
and want,
but know
I must wait
for that other world
at a later
who knows when
date.