Dad, I picture me at your grave: A poem 

It is the month of March 

I see the flowers arch 

to milder days; it’s okay 

that the season lasts only till May 

I await a prognosis 

I fathom the promise 

like a widow at a seance 

thinking it is the last and only chance 

Outside, the autumn colours bloom 

Now, a dream may or may not, soon 

Dad, I picture me at your grave 

and all the tears of laughter I saved 

‘Ere the load be off my back 

A debt be paid on destiny’s track 

My blood and sweat written in white and black 

I know you were strength when I did lack