Drawing breath

My father died this year. He was 89. About 2 years ago we had the first real scare and he began to show signs of real mortality. Like so many fathers he seemed, in my mind at least, to have done enough to suggest he was always going to be around despite the evidence.

Anyway, that day 2 years ago, he looked desperate and vulnerable, clutching an oxygen mask in a hospital ward.

Drawing breath

Draw, this word he used

for the urgency of fire,

the secret code for his deft magic,

his talismanic hand pivotin gus,

silently, motivating us around some

unsaid hearth of life

speaking of warmth and grace.

Draw now then! Draw this life

Into yourself, self-flickering man,

magic your own fire

without the conjurer's mask

whitening your hand.