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Grave Visit: (1 Viewer)


WF Veterans
Face pressed against the rock
home to dreams of restitution –
can the past ever be more than a lesson
learnt after the need?

Hands pressed beside head
press into the stone –
fingerprints in ochre, the best scream
for those who come after.

I hear you now father
now your flesh rots and your memory
hangs beside my self-portrait;
our eyes the same cast, a colour
that captures blue sky frozen beside rigid snow.

I find it odd my cousins, siblings
of your siblings, point at me
and recast you in the flesh – I the least
now the most identifiable; irony
a red-tipped needle for the boil.

In the end I leave some flowers
knowing they’ll soon fade
make my way to the beach
only moments from where you are buried.

Watch the waves, recall your green bathers
your smile, the race you ran
along the sand, wild as the wind that came
all the way from Antarctica.