Requiem for my father

Talking about people who've gone in the physical sense,

here's a piece for my father.

The ipod shuffle plays the music from your funeral in the car.

The full moon

climbing a swatch of cloud reminds me

of the purple, wood-smoked dusk of home.

It's the coldest night since Christmas,

the weatherman said - the Christmas we spent

not knowing it was our last day on earth together.

When you squatted

in my garden, the hail stones like snow,

tying up my tomato vines with your old hands - still nimble.

Now the summer of your death has left us. Today

we looked for mossy branches in the garden

for the next family event after the wedding

(I don't like cooked pear, you'd confided to me),

Christmas, your funeral, and now: my daughter's wedding.

Your chair will be empty.

So now it's cold

and a row of late picked, ripening tomatoes on a window-sill

reminded me of the way you stored your persimmons -

in a line-up,

their leathery skins

slowly turning to satin

under your greedy gaze.

We met today at the cafe

where we planned your garden funeral -

your daughters, and the mothers of your children.

They exchanged an awkward greeting.

The handsome waiter - your son, has your cheeky charm.

The mother of your daughters,

your first love, said he's just like you were

when you loved her.

I played the piano after lunch. The hymns

you sang and taught us, and others -

choirs, song services and a duet with my mother -

each song a freshly ploughed memory.

Randomly, the ipod plays your funeral music,

your requiem, on the lonely drive home.

Arriving at my gate the final song

Wayfaring Stranger - 'I'm only going over Jordan,

I'm only going over home..'

You haunted me today.