memoirs, art and fragments by Thomas Milner

At the hospital

We all stood around our father’s body,

Laid out like an ancient Patriarch,

Unseeing eyes tilted towards acceptance,

Grieving.

 

Later I sat by the garden-waters and wept,

Remembering how he used to show me

His books, family treasures, one by one.

 

I then returned to my own place,

Tranquil in the hot season

Dry wind sighing through pine and eucalyptus.

 

But worming through the myriad-mazes

Of my dreams crept an uninvited guest,

The intimation of my mortality.

FRENCH VILLAGE CHURCH by my father ROBERT HUGH MILNER

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