MICHAEL NEWMAN

MIND-BREATHES

Don’t remember me as a rag of bones,

But as the vibrant conversationalist

In pub encounters.

Don’t remember me as a Belsen throwback,

But as the epicure

At the head of the table.

Don’t remember me in doctors’ surgeries,

But as the rambler

Intrepid on the wolds.

Don’t remember me on life support,

But as the tower of strength

In your post-natal days.

Don’t remember me as another shadow,

But as the warmth

That entered your life,

And stayed.

CATHERINE BROUGHTON

SHADOWS -- FOR MY FATHER

A Prose Poem

I went back to Africa, so sure I’d find you. But you

were not there.  On the boat – for a moment – was

that you? Smiling into the sun? The wind in your

hair?   Oh, the shadows of the yachtsman you  

once were beyond the African soil you loved

so much.

I drove through Africa and I looked at the dust to
find your footprints where you once stepped.  And
there – for a moment – was that you? In that sound?
Oh, my heart leapt at the shadows of the father
you were. On the African soil you loved so much.

I did not find you. You were gone from that place.
Barely the touch of your ghost in the lands. Or
in the heat of the sun in the tropics. Or in the
waving darkling hands.

I think you are where I last saw you. And I cried.  
Your shadow moves in that garden in Kent.
Where you died.