On your death

You,
The first of my family to be buried,
spoke to me in a dream,
with waves crashing
and a swollen sea swirling.

You were light as a seagull
above the waves,
not touched by the ocean's ravage.

I remembered playing Chopsticks
with Lucy and I sandwiched between you and Dad
on the piano stool.

I remembered the way you'd urge:
'go on, have another one, they're there to be eaten'.
And how, as children
we were happy to oblige.

I remembered the scotch decanter,
the beans in your garden,
your laugh at Christmas.

In my dream
I urged you to hold
tighter to the fence
as you flapped in the wind.

And you smiled
and told me not to worry.