From time to time the dead come <br />for their allotted meeting like prisoners, <br />jostling, and sit on the bench to wait. <br />The hands of the carver <br />recognise each face. <br /> <br />My father is among them. <br />To him I go first, assuring him <br />that he is always first for me, <br />as if he needed <br />this reassurance.<br /><br />Martin TURNER<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/dreaming-of-the-dead/
