Monday, 7 June 2010

The Day My Father Died

The day my father died
The staff nurse from the hospital telephoned to let us know
"Your father passed away," she said, "ten minutes ago"
And I cried.
The day my father died
I walked to the Post Office and back
And every voice and sound
And revving car engine
Seemed to lack
Any sort of Conscious Life;
And I wondered if this world
I’m passing through
Is the real world of death,
Driven by a restless energy
Possessing and controlling us
In contrast to the peace and stillness
Of my father’s face
After drawing his last breath.
The day my father died
I lay awake upon my bed
At some mid-evening hour
And my tiny room was host
To an energy of such
Rare quality and power
That I could sense
The circulation of my blood
And every ounce of flesh
From head to toe.
Something so immense,
An in-pouring of love and gratitude
Which fast became a flood.
The Comforter was there,
Whatever you perceive
The Comforter to be,
Turning my bereavement
And my sorrow
Into an other-worldly ecstasy.
The day my father died
I hated you, Professor Dawkins
And then I laughed
At that proud intellect
So one-dimensional and unintelligent
In a wider sense
And blind enough to say
That any extraordinary experience,
Which ordinary language
And scientific formulas
Cannot convey,
Is illusory.
Professor Dawkins,
My father knew
He was no Pythagoras
And nor are you.
© Geoff Davis 2003