A recurring dream after father’s death

Caught an old red train from the end of the pier

along the ocean, the water always close,

whispering ‘go home, go home’ as its liquid arms

touched the shore a thousand, thousand times,

to the land bridge that before white man’s heavy steps

connected Tasmania to the mainland. From there

I walked to Tasmania along a path the colour of deer skin,

and passed a lot of faces, who travelled the other way,

I did not know, yet somehow did - as if they were

the faces of my genealogy, a history of people who knew me

and remained silent. Their eyes watched without judgment

as I passed, always drawing closer to the round green hills

of Irishtown, the curving road through the farmland

called Fahey’s Lane, named after some long dead ancestor.

I arrived at a farmhouse, an old weatherboard, unpainted,

the tin roof  covering the porch slumped forward

with the weight of too much rain, the glass in the windows

spotted with dust from past rainfall and everywhere

people walked, looked and did not utter a word.

The sky over head was blue, the distant ocean

also blue tinged with the white tops -

surf coming in to crash the island’s ancient rocks

like kids embracing their mother’s legs.

I came to the front door

and found myself standing beside

my father’s coffin – and then

understood this journey was a trip back

to his and my childhood. I stared down

at my bare feet and guessed they were the size

from when I was eleven, maybe twelve, smiled

at my knobbly knees that smiled

from underneath my old grey shorts.

The sadness of recent months dwindled, like

grains of sand falling down a funnel into

someone else’s psychic trouble.

I turned back to the front yard and saw

a young boy run past, who squealed and laughed,

chased by a mother’s angry voice that called

‘Michael1’

The call woke me.

I discovered myself in my bed at night; left its warmth

to stand before the window in the sunroom, my feet filling

the indentations in the beige carpet, signs

of too many sleepless nights,

and stared up at the stars - thought about Michael,

my father, dead and buried three months ago.

My silence was not filled with his death

but at the thought

that a son never meets his father as a child

and the knowledge

my own son never will.