Vigil
According to the crack, he was dressed and treated
in the Catholic tradition
and left waiting to cross the step
for the last time.
He had left us, his six children,
in the smoke and talk of the parlour,
where mother in the receding light
placed bread and tea,
delicately on the table, and waited for night to drop
velvet black behind the curtains.
We played cards while mother slept;
the hour hand in the face of the clock
a mediator between feelings,
between the fixed and the fluid.
Daylight, in the loft his pigeons
waited as usual for his call;
knocking at the trays for the seed he scattered daily.
Page(s) 18
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