On the first of December
the cherry tree switches itself on.
The one thing lighting itself at this time.
I do not like to be lit but I want to know
that those I love are there like lights
to be switched on. I’m late
for my father and rush towards him.
It seems that nothing will let me pass.
When I arrive he doesn’t know I’m late
and until I stand in front of him he doesn’t know
that I will arrive. Only when our eyes meet
do I feel as if this is really him and I am really me.
He occupies an impossible lack of dimension.
He sees me as incomplete reflection.
When I leave he will not know that I have been.
Storm follows storm. Why not admit this?
The late soft colours of his returning to us
are already gone.
Here we present an extract from the wider body of work.