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Poem

UNFINISHED  SENTENCE


At  Sunday  prep  my
boarding school teacher
criticising  my  unfinished sentence .  
No communicated thoughts,  no words . 
Sentenced  to life at fourteen ,
away from home and you  my life
sentenced  in  solitary . 
A death sentence  commuted to life , 
both  imprisoned  in  separate cells ,
separated  from you  by streams of tears . 


At Christmas  a chestpain took my father
without closure  or goodbye ,
a  rude undeserved end .
My  heart’s-loss ,
not even  found  for days ,
you are  not really dead,
across the  Styx  wandering  lost
along  tearless  roads in darkness .
Alone and  lost  my 
mother , family ,  left  bereft .


The warm breath of dairy cows
hangs  over empty  farmland and a winter 
cemetery  on this cold  Sunday morning ,
with  grandsons  who resemble you .
Only I  know their hands are
your  big hands -  are 
my  hands - placing  here a token
poinsettia ,  red-toned ,  roots swirling
inside  their pot of earth .


You grew them in  masses and
my childhood  Christmas was complete .
Their leaves drop with the cold,
dead  but not really dead .
They will return  next Christmas 
and your spirit comes   back again .
Your  big hand is  in mine,  but I am   
unled  and  abandoned and
I  talk  to you in  poinsettia  tones ,
continually  coming  back to 
your unfinished  finished life ,
frozen like  the stream
of memory  in my mind .

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