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The long search
When Dad lay dying
his chrysalised eyes
glazed, half shut – half open –
sight retreating – or emerging,
I did not know whether to bathe
the glue away .
What point unveiling this cold and
hostile world – the one inside his fractured mind so
much more revealing?
In blurred and torpid vision he saw a seagull perched upon
his bed – and winds from his beloved north stirred memories
of brackened moor and lamp lit streets, where children played
late into the frosted night.
I am searching, he said.
I am searching for my brother,
long lost.
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