In The Morning The Sun Will Sing My Lifetime Away

 

In The Morning The Sun Will Sing My Lifetime Away

Black coffee in bed is something I never did –
but there were black beds,
too numerous to count,
buried in black grounds
that slipped a French press’s mesh
found mugged and swirling around.
Black thoughts like blackthorn—
and then, come dawn, you were born.

Five days later, hitting 50 out of the park,
you attended – a scrap, a spark,
swaddled in thick blankets,
Inuit faced, but blue eyes scoped skies
until nightfall – you were gone by last knockings.
And I cleared up the dregs,
chewed knuckles, shook my head.

He was there, and a year later held you
for the first and last time,
spoke to me about crime –
unjust that he had this and I had you.
And soon after, he was gone –
turbid black plumes thickened air, I despaired.

It was in St Hellier they contrived,
said someday next year you would arrive,
and how some fathers fly, far far away,
little baby – and I thought about it –
those black beds in black coffee
slipping and sliding and taking a dive –
and how would it have been?
Now, those thoughts sit forever in me
and often make me cry.

Because we built together
wondrous layouts that will last forever,
and as time unfurled, we grew whole again.
Fourteen summers have come and gone
since you came along –
I’m sitting here in Arabia, far flung,
humming Clair, living long, still strong,
in blessing your life, the years to come,
still young enough to play -
for in the morning
the sun will sing my lifetime away.