It was when
I saw
Your painting, unfinished
Perfectly framed
By the
Window, the light
Streaming down
Upon it
That I realised
Perhaps for the first time
That you were
Gone.
The window
Which gazed out onto
The apple tree, bare with leaves
Perfectly seemed
To frame your
Life.
In front of me
Your last piece, the one we knew
Would never be
Completed, but which we hoped
Would be.
Outside
The apple tree, the one you planted
With your own two
Hands, the one
Which kept your family
Rich in fruit.
Under the earth
The ashes
Of your cats, your other
Children, the furry
Ones. The same cats
That inspired so much
Of your work, the same ones
You drew
On the glass in your workshop
To scare the other, foreign felines
Away, from your prized
Goldfish.
And last of all
Next to the cats
Is you.
You, the man who created
The very house we're
In, you who made
The thousands of
Paintings, etchings, silkprints
Drawings that line this
House.
You, the man
Who gave me my name
Who looked after me
Who loved me.
I think
You are the lucky
One. Afterall, you are the only one
Who will be able
To keep this
House.
~forever a part of your work.
~july 2018
