Peter Day

Pictures of My Father

House 2

An empty house

but I hear you.

Here, the echo, the monumental geometry of voices
traverse and measure this space

Look after him. Look after him.
We wanted to speak, you and I,

but time got between us and
the clocks scampered fast across the almanacs.

Between each room, we paused and our lungs plumped,
mere bags and bones

knocking at the futures room but its
chroniclers never replied
The present held, in each walls divide

dreams ground down and configured by
each mortared hour and nothing of magnitude,

now extended and cemented into what remains
the calcium dust.

Year by year, and so on in times this lean sarcophagus,
a necklace into which our pasted jewels
are designed; our potential denied?

This monument is ours,
its our months and years and are so to be

A last post, so emotionally obtuse
remember, remember, remember each bone
fragment of man

his calcium crust.
Look after Him

his math, space and history,
too complicated to understand,

too confusing to express.
And Here I found him

I held him and
wouldn't let him go
until I took him to my mothers house
the one where I was born'
(the song of songs, which is Solomon's - bible)