poetry 2016 / 106

Falling Ash

The hair on his hands never turned grey

but stayed red as a fox

though his widow's peak grew in

and his hair silvered beneath the brylcreme.

The freckles joined up;

a gardening tan from working his garden,

tending broccoli, cabbage, potatoes

(they were never quite free of the blight)

and pulling bones from the sad spot

beneath the lilac tree.

His hands began to shake from disease

yellow fingernails tipped with soil

as he spilled his tea over the kitchen cupboard

and wished he could join our mother.