My brain has turned to ash, and yes, <br />My mouth is dust, <br />And love is grief, and death is <br />But the loss of trust; <br />While life is paupered, futures turn, <br />Feed on the past, <br />And dwell on words you might have… <br />If I’d only asked! <br /> <br />No point to dwell again, but yet <br />I must, I will; <br />Was there some hint, a glimpse perhaps <br />You’d long distilled, <br />Was I so blind, insensible <br />And dead to grief <br />That death could snatch you carelessly, <br />Some petty thief. <br /> <br />Perspectives shift, horizons narrow, <br />Drift my sand, <br />Your loss has marked my end, that shallow <br />Sleight of man, <br />What now remains of you, I am <br />Though poor in creed, <br />For what you were was love, and this <br />I’ve lost indeed. <br /> <br />1 August 1987<br /><br />David Lewis Paget<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/on-the-death-of-my-father/
