The cornflowers
By Sam Karlsson

Your brown shadow falters
in the umber down feathers of summertime.

I catch tremulous thoughts of you for a second;
but they slip my grasp - lancing light.
The shards of memory suffuse
softly and then evaporate.

Once more your sylvan form appears to me,
twenty years ago in that green dress -  
cool cotton kissing honey skin
as we make moves in sunshine.

"Father, what is love?" interposes our son,
as, holding hands, we walk to meet you.

"She's a cruel mistress," I half joke,
furtively glancing at the half spent pavement
of my past and present, patting his brown head -
a blur of uncombed hair rising from unwashed uniform.

"But my teacher says that God is love!"
he exclaims, confused,
with bright soft eyes full of earnest enquiry.

"She's not wrong," I whisper,
in gentle deference
as we turn past the familiar
corner of our graveyard.

He catches my doting look as
an autumnal breeze washes over the
warm cellophane and rustles
the blue cornflowers.