Friday, 18 March 2016

One of four poems by Rutger Kopland on the death of his father

on the death of my father

iii his coat

The death of my father J had hardly
taken place when my mother A
carefully took down his raincoat
from the stand. Just try it on,
she said, he was so proud of it.

So there I stood and from
the sleeves and as I buttoned it
I felt how dead he was
and how far off my youth. Old
and frail I would become, in these
folds my skin would end up hanging
on my bones.

No comments: