This poem appeared in my book, Heading North. Though it
doesn't explicitly say so, I wrote it on the
death of my father, fourteen years ago today.
No more. No more bleaching white
the nicotine stained flesh
of your fingers,
picking at the sterile
veneer of cordiality
amidst the well-thumbed
from which ruins strive to rise.
No more counting down the markers,
elbows jostling territorially,
courting, sequential swans
rising in toasts, triumphant.
Your slow, inexorable withdrawal
left behind a vacuum,
the equilibrium of a table
out of kilter.
No longer the trumpeted parading
of the heir apparent,
the tedious repetition
of vine and tongue,
reproduced seasoned lines
framing the true inheritance
and held to likeness.
Casual comparity no more. No more.
©Andrew James Murray