It is you
whom I seek
in the long hours
of the night.

It is you
whom I wait for
in the dawn’s
dull light.

It is your voice
I listen for
in all bird’s song;
thought you
were for always;
I was wrong.

I want to hear
your laughter,
chuckle and wit,
but though I listen,
there’s not one bit.

There is
the loud laughter
of world and ways,
and pointless chat;
but we close it off;
want none of that.

I feel along the clothes
that you once wore;
but nothing is the same
as it was before.

His ashes are here,
the dame said,
soft tones,
but blunt words,
reminding me,
that you are dead.

Sure the world goes on,
turns blindly
on its way,
come night
dark and cold,
come dull day.

Sure the days will pass
and others’ appetites
and passions burn,
but it is you,
and your being
here again,
for which,
my son,
I yearn.