Tadeusz

For Tadeusz, the devil is in the detail -

In fallen moths on windowsills,

In their disintegrating, here and gone bodies,

In pine cones and beads left over from holidays,

Found again unexpectedly, heartbreakingly

On a windswept, February morning

In fairy tales that are not really fairy tales

And paths through old woods,

In the secret name that all cats share,

Typed on a computer by a garrulous kitten -

Sio.apn

Sometimes he wonders whether

His father touched him

Or was it a dream?

Like his frequent dream

That he is dying,

With its cut scene

Of his face, yellow-pale

In a mirror he doesn’t recognise

And he can’t touch his wife

Because he loves her

And he can’t touch his children

Because he loves them

They are fragments to him,

Shards,

Scattered over

His boyhood head,

Familiar and not,

Sleeping by running water

On a stone pillow

And Tadeusz hews the stone,

Grinding it beneath his strong fingers

To expose

The polished, awful secret

That underneath everything

It’s love for his father

He feels