On the Impending Death of My Father

Out on the front verandah We'd share a bottle of silence And watch a twenty-eight in the dead Jarrah tree - Neither of us thinking of the death that was to be. I'd produce a flask of wit And you'd follow with a chuckle - The low, breathy kind, Like a 'packet-a-day' kookaburra Just beginning to wind up. No, not much to say, All said in our glasses As we sit And wait... For the long, quiet night.