Just The Touch Of My Pale Pink Hand

The controversy of the honours list this year, and the comment by someone that their father had received a lesser ‘gong’ for having fought for King and Country than had an interior designer, prompted me to bring my poem about my father into the light of day…

I remember the day.

(It is a day no-one can forget.)

Strands of golden web abound,

and silver ties here with there.

There is a settling of old bones –

yet not as old as might have been –

the days, scythed away, silently.

The rouge has drained from the skin;

has dripped relentlessly

from the open wound of disease.

And even though this blight was there

the spirit still maintained your life.

Now, pallid grey-blueish tones

suck my eyes to see him

(He with his lowered jaw, and lids)

and I see the face of the Christ

hung from the cross – elongated.

Violet heralds the advent

of his life’s certain moment –

and though I do not want its touch

to come upon my dying dad,

I wish it not to more delay.

The cold blue mist of silence

descends on the Friday ward.

The air is stilled and dust motes stay

suspended, as is life itself.

Now his occult breath is easy.

Colours mist my tearful eyes,

selfish tears of my sorrow

for too much time spent divided –

not wept for him who gave me life –

he is beyond the need of them.

Britain never gave him gold

for inhaling its wartime dust

making weapons for the devil.

No medal to pin on his chest –

there is…

…just the touch of my pale-pink hand.

And my tears – which persist after all these years.