NOT BEING THERE.

FATHER CONVERSING WITH HIS DEAD SON.

I miss your humour,
the look you gave,
that twinkle in the eye.

I miss the smile,
mischievous,
but harmless,
healing wounds.

Your flat was emptied
and some other
lives there now;
I avoid the place now,
haunts me somehow.

I miss you coming in
for lunch and dinner,
your quiet presence,
your hungry bear look,
that soft foot tread
looking for food,
but most of all
I miss your wit,
your one liners,
that gentle humour
now gone,
but not forgotten;
aching heart,
as if wounded
and dumb rotten.  

Feel I ought not
to have left you
in that ward,
I feel I ought
to have stayed,
still haunts me,
I'm afraid.
If you come
in the spirit sense,
be near, talk,
even if I cannot hear.

I miss you son,
miss you
not being here.