NOT BEYOND THE DAY.

[dadio]

On that rattling train
and rocky bus
you went
with your mother

to the sanatorium
where your father
was shafted
with cancer

the bus
made you travel sick
the long drive upward
was lined with trees

and tall grass
the building
a one storey affair
rigid and unfriendly

stood silently there
you walked down
long white corridors
the smell added

to your sickness
the passing of rooms
and windows
and silence

mother said nothing
carry hope
in her handbag
and you waited

for the first sight
of your father
since he’d left home
a short while before

and there he was
in pyjamas
and maroon dressing gown
and slippers

pale faced
an old man
imitating
your father

death winged
and narrow shouldered
he stood
attempting a smile

the cancer his companion
creeping beside him
there was greeting
and exchange

of kiss and hug
and you taking in
the wasting away
the lines on features

the grey hair
turning white
the hanging on clothes
he took you

to a room
where you all
sat alone
given up smoking

he said
too late I know
but it gives me
the final word

mother sat
and talked of him
and home
and the other kids

and the pet dogs
missing him
and you sat silent
seeking the right words

the thoughts muddled
the sight of him
a shock
how are you?

he asked
he’s travel sick
mother said
o that’s bad

he said gently
as though it mattered
in the range of things
the smell of death

and decay
the last goodbye
seeing him no more
beyond that day.