The Spirit Of Mr. Woodley

 

“I watch my daughter place the flowers

Over me; wipe her tears, and smile;

The smile, more effulgent than the flowers,

Lingers on;

The smile matters;

The smile that can alter the scent of death.

Not a Sunday she has missed, ever;

Not a Sunday when I haven’t watched her sit

By me, and talk about the love of her life

And smile demurely; I wish she knew

I listened to her; I wish she knew how I

Loved to see her in the lovely yellow frock

And how I wish she hadn’t coloured her locks;

I am alive, now, for I watch her fall asleep into

The bosom of womanhood; I am just

Invisible, to the eyes that still carry tears;

Death is the finality; this I had known and believed;

The decisiveness in it; the conclusiveness;

But in death did I realise the worth of living;

And that none in the world mattered, but

The ones who call me back.”

 

“My daughter, if you are listening, I shall never be

Too asleep to watch you run your fingers

Over the name of your father;

I see the same moon, the same stars

In the dark of this unruffled night;

And I wish I could tell you the names

Of those who have forgotten how they look;

So varied are their masks; But you must

Stand tall, in the masquerade, and smile;

You need not a disguise, but the wisdom

To identify one; for not all shall cry after

One leaves; I know, I have seen.

You must have ears to listen to one self

For you won’t find a better teacher.

And finally, my dear, you must pour

All of your goodness into your child;

For one day all shall know how rare, and precious,

True tears on a grave really are.”