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.

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