I know where the time goes,
As go it must,
It goes like the wind,
Which explains all the dust.

I do know where the time goes,
I heard it talking to the trees
When I was three
So I asked my dad,
“What did it say?”
And he laughed and said,
“I’m here to stay.”
Then he found a twig  
And scratched that lie into the ground with it.
Which suited me down to it.

We avoided cremation.
It would have seemed that time itself had set dad’s *** on fire
As though belatedly berating him
For making his non-carking remark
In the park
Thus consigning him and his joke
To a message in a bottle of bloke.

Now I’m back in the park
And hoping time has been kind enough
To preserve the evidence.
Hmm, I thought as much;
It’s blown all the leaves into a heap
Like secrets the trees couldn’t be trusted to keep.
It’s broken the twigs’ fingers
For their part in the scam
And I’m afraid to say
That all the rain today
Has turned the dust, like dad, to clay.
Which has itself been washed to the same place time goes
Which is either, rather beautifully… away.
Or, less so…down the drain.
Depending on how fantastic your dad was.