ARE DAYS.

A FATHER TALKS TO HIS DEAD SON.

There are days and nights,
when I seem as if
on a lonely shore,

having seen
your ship of life,
sink without trace

in that far off
dark sea,
leaving us,

my son,
here on the cold shore,
staring out

at the distant horizon
where ships of death
and departure go,

beneath a bright light
or sunset glow.
There are nights

and days,
feeling a hollowness inside,
a chasm opening up

some place within,
there amongst,
memories,

deeds thought
and  done,
happy days and bad,

good works and sin,
and the feeling
of almost falling in.

Nudge, my stoic son,
the elbow
of the God in charge

of this turning ball
to hear us,
hear our sad

and grieving call.