FATHER DYING.

A FATHER DYING OF CANCER AND THE LAST VISITATION.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Father was dying
Of cancer. The ward
Had the silence and
Stillness of a morgue;

 

Ashtrays placed on small
Tables were stuffed with
Cigarette butts, some
With lipstick. You felt

 

Travelsick from the
Bus ride to the far
Away hospital;
Your mother putting

 

On a brave face hid
The oncoming of
Grief building up in
Her heart. You do not

 

Look well, Father said
To you, looking at
The paleness of your
Features. The air smelt

 

Of disinfect and
Decaying flowers;
Sunlight attempted
To enter the wide

 

Window by the bed;
His thin grey hair was
Combed back on his head.
How are you feeling?

 

Mother asked, knowing
The answer, wishing
She didn’t. Do not
Fret, Father said, God

 

Is not ready for
Me yet. He smiled and
Looked away and stubbed
His cigarette in

 

The nearby ashtray,
Full of stubbed out ends.
You wanted to speak,
To say, all will be

 

Well, you’ll soon be home,
Back with us in your
Favourite chair. He
Never did return,

 

He knew that better
Than you did even
Then; your father, your
Only hero; best
Friend, man amongst men.

Reviews

[just rose.]

That quality of seeing heroes reduced to humanity is expressed exquisitely here. I wonder about the power of words when someone we love is near death from a wasting disease; it's as if every ordinary moment up to that point was somehow taken for granted, and when we try to impose a quotidian quality on complete chaos, we fail, and the bittersweetness of that failure and the unknowing defines our helplessness. I see all that in this poem.