Peter Day

Pictures of My Father

Our fight with them is over
as they have consumed our fight and the collected struggle

those hours (forty six years) of spring, summer, and winter
and now time is theirs,

each and every wilt, its decay was forever theirs,
You alone will survive

this glorious and ravenous autumn
die holding this sadness.

They are the heirs.

They nod.

All we want is a little peace

in your good time our atheism retreats.
Here by the window

I pause and I am conscious,
not for the first time,

of nothing and aware,
alive to its weight.

Here I have found him amongst nothing,
for here is nothing.

Men are nothing.
I hold onto Him and

there is a weight of nothing,
a solemn and serious nothing.

Here and there, scattered across seedtime
these seedlings fatten only stupid and
crazy yearlings

watered with tears,
what were we thinking that we could ever

set ourselves free
It is stupid to be scared of nothing

but I am scared.
Look after him. Look after him.

I am troubled
by the great fear

that the very tissue of our lives might tear
and by so doing become something memorable.

A scar riven history with few graces.
Each daily act turning out veterans of the greater war.

I came here not knowing what I came for ‚
to be a present again?

To be alive in the dominion? Adding another burr,
trace and another layer, another memory.

It is the cold and the autumn makes me shiver,
This shiver is alive and palpable to the living seasons,

The living reason is the burning up of life‘s

the blurring whirligig of forgetfulness and my
clumsy definition

I am here and you are not.

The house is empty and I lock the door, quietly
behind me

It continues, fathomless in its functional
needs to exist

apart from the scars,
spanning a monstrous silence,

there is nothing def ined, here,
in quiet places.

They are the heirs.

In God‘s good time.