I wasn't home that stormy night <br />the fragrance of pink Frangipani had <br />forever captured me, that bittersweet <br />magician of soft velvet, alight <br />against the moon of southern seas, <br />my night was balmy though, <br />a thousand patient stars, so far <br />from distant cousins of the ancient home. <br /> <br />There were commitments here, you see <br />all flights were often booked, way in advance. <br />And come to think of it, what would it do <br />it was God's work to call him home at last <br />I'd be, to put it bluntly, in the way. <br /> <br />A tiny yet so icy hand had touched my face, <br />communication from the edge, but why choose me? <br />The night then blossomed through soft music, and a trance <br />descended on our little island from above. <br />In foam-flecked rhythm swayed small waves, in lusty dance <br />and I had grown some tender roots, a sign of love. <br /> <br />Across the miles he fought old lungs that would not breathe <br />a sign of certainty the candle had been burned, <br />those plastic lenses stared at all who had been trapped <br />oh what an irony to see the clever hands <br />of Doctor Cataract as he was widely known. <br /> <br />And he had commandeered my father's favourite chair, <br />though there was little in the way that Dad could do. <br />Or was there? All could see unhappiness, and that he turned <br />but it was only the last gesture as he raised <br />a yellowed and too bony, heavy hand, as if to say <br />'it is embarrassing to me for you to stay'. <br /> <br />So many worlds away, in Polynesian blues <br />beneath those lovely Frangipani blossom trees, <br />I could not know who had been sad and who had cried. <br />Perhaps the Gods will always get their precious dues. <br />I was not there that night when my old father died.<br /><br />Herbert Nehrlich<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-night-my-father-died-2/
