del día cayendo sobre el pavimento
la tostadora resonando en vano.
I make my passage across the city, the bus idling
in morning traffic, I idling with my thoughts
and sorrow. This is the first anniversary of your going.
There, finally, beneath the breaking clouds I stand among
the granite headstones, the tattered flags
and votive toys, the faded plastic flowers.
On every grave there is a snapshot of the departed
cut from some family scene and smiling towards us
in the blue, pristine sky of their absence.
All those lost faces and you among them,
on a hill where no tree grows and the wind blows cold.
We must all rest somewhere. You were my father.
I loved you imperfectly, but true.
To the deep, dark earth we have given you.
of the day falling on pavements,
the toaster humming to nothing.