Scattered

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Father lives in dust.

 

Father lives in dust.

His quiet demeanour 

maintained.

His height diminished

but resting high upon

my shelf.

He looks out across

the room,

infinite grey eyes

still curious

but at peace, I hope.

Apt he rests above

the flat screen TV,

which he gave 

so many of his hours to.

Judge Judy’s ratings now

poorer by one view.

 

We are all poorer now.

Today we took you 

from the shelf

returning to your

favoured green belt:

the course where you

tried to golf.

There you will rest;

a grey blanket

clinging to autumn leaves.

The day we scattered 

your ashen self.

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