A few hours after I left,
my son, you
died for the first time.
I sift my brain
to recall what you wore
that last time.
Black jeans,
black tee-shirt,
your favourite colour
or lack of
as some might say.
The night gear
they gave you
the night before
out of sight.
Neither of us aware,
as we spoke,
that it would be
the last talk.
Had I known,
I would not have left,
would have held you back
from jaws of death
with every fibre
of my being.
I wish I had stayed,
wish I had said more
and more deeper.
If wishes were pebbles
I could fill a beach.
You now gone
to another place,
near us some say,
just out of reach.
I was there
at your second death;
you in a coma,
unaware,
or so it seemed.
Then your heart flat-lined;
all was still;
that world we knew ended.
That aspect without you
seems to lack,
like a modern painting
oil painted canvas
completely black.
A FATHER TALKS TO HIS DEAD SON.