OF SEEING YOU.

A FATHER TALKS TO HIS DEAD SON.

I guess I thought
that the pain of grief
would somehow
ease away,

like some small ship
eases from the shore or port,
into the mist
of an unknown

destination far away,
but it is there still,
just beneath the skin,
waiting for just a word,

or image, or memory,
or melody, to bring it out
in a rush, in an emotional wave,
bringing, like tigers

from jungles of childhood,
tears, fierce and hot,
and angry and sad,
and mixed together

like some heaving stew,
wanting you, my son,
wanting you.
I suppose I thought

that this pain of grief
would become less
with the tick tock of time
with the movement

of the hands
of the daily clock,
having got over
the initial shock

of your sudden afternoon death,
having read the cards
of condolences, having seen
the many flowers and seen

them fade and go,
having heard the words
of sorrow said and expressed,
that this pain would go

or ease like that,
like the rest,
but no, it is still there,
my son, still pains,

bubbling beneath the skin,
waiting for just that memory
of final hours, or words
or things I ought

to have said, but didn't
or words said but faded
by the passing hands
of time's erasure,

words I wanted to say,
or said but unsure if you
in your coma heard
or knew or whether

they came and went
into the blue, and haunting
images of that last time,
last time, my son,

of seeing you.