wandering around milan my father
I know that (bred in the bone) i’m you
I walk and think – my legs roll onwards
I take in the atmosphere but not the view

But now you’re dead – and i’ve been silent
For the past five months since you were burned
A numbness that called itself acceptance
Sat in my heart and outward yearned

With other deaths i’ve not been stingy
When my mother died and then my daughter
A kind of celebration knew me
And words flowed upwards like clear water

But you were ninety-two in dying
When nature came proudly to claim its own
You went as rightly as you’d journeyed
And words had best leave well alone

But as i sit on this sunny sunday
Watching an italian family pass
I am this small boy holding tightly
His father’s hand across the grass

And here as i sit now weeping lightly
I’m sorry for those speechless tomes
That only now dare dredge that language
To honour your presence in my bones

And child to you i am a father
And my own children i tightly need
For all those deaths i deal them daily
May these green words a little bleed

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