I feel ill, a union
of physical and mental
failure, a state
of being on my knees,
as the world, life
turn and capsize.
My father, he died
on this floor I lay on,
remade by him, I
have forgotten the colour
it had, on that day
I first stepped in.
I only recall, remember,
the light of that day.
The light of all, of all
the coming days and years,
until now, on floorboards
he set, I seek the feeling
of his hands that placed them,
those hard, work-scarred
hands that still in that photo
wash me, few months old.
I don't think he was ever as happy
with me afterwards, as he was then.
14.04.2017