Index

Touching His Face

I saw my boy today and touched his face.
And yet did not.
He is, or rather was not old.
My fingers, seeking comfort,
met the cold and lifeless mould
that once upon such recent times
was full replete with love, his joy, his wit.
This time my helpless touch found not a trace
of life - left lingering here
in conjured mimes I willed.
Yet moved him not one bit.

My strained imag’nings urged his lovely smile,
his lively eyes to open,
lips to part,
for him to greet the sadness in my soul.
for this, dared hope,
for this I longed in vain,
for him to lift his head,
rise up again
And in his generous style once more beguile
the skilled embalmer’s cold, deceitful art,
Before he meets tomorrow’s burning coal.

30/7/18