From your hands that dipped me in cool tubs
and soft morn wakes, you were the gentle lion
taming my bohemian strains; the lamb of summer
rain catching me like a feather on your palm...
always, your balm poured moon glow of bliss,
erring only when my restless flowers needed
to bend: from where pictures stood, time bowed
shaping night talks, life’s edges, and paused faces.
Then the gas light dripped on lacquered frames,
silhouettes fading as I collected our thoughts—
marbles in my pocket—to keep me safe
from cold winds, rough dreams. And tonight,
my breath grows wild, noting the fabric of tears
as I click past lenses : shut off, shut off.
Just when evening’s done, you reach your arms
in slow motion to hold me close again...hands
that dipped me then, gone, without saying goodbye
from a wave of coma that folded your eyes.
Among old photographs, I still ask this...
Daddy, need we part too soon? I was only 24.
Loss Contest of Craig Cornish
5 Nov 2012