Do you recall,
my son,
from your side
of the curtain

of death,
that Metallica CD
you bought me
at that record fair

some years back?
You fingered through
a number of CDs
in racks

looking for something
for yourself:
Radiohead
or R.E.M.

I forget which
or was it more
or both.
I was in

a heavy metal
frame of mind
that day;
counting the money

to match the choice.
I'll get it
for you
for your birthday,

you said.
I play it still,
the Metallica CD,
the thundering drums,

buzz saw guitars,
chugging bass,
and tough guy voice
over the turned up

loud burning lot.
I think of you
when playing it now;
your quiet nature,

soft spoken voice,
hungry-bear stance
about the room,
your own unique

chuckle of humour.
Do you remember,
my son,
the Zed Zeppelin

CD and DVD
you bought me
for my birthday
that final year?

you'll always be
a rocker,
you said,  
and those words

repeat softly,
like a summer breeze,
through the corridors,
of my mourning head.