New Dust

My father is busy sleeping in the church
stone cold on his marble bed.

He has a strict face but he has fought battles
a knight in shining armour, my lion warrior.

My mother has a rota and while she sweeps
old dust from the flagstones I creep into his corner.

He has no shield, but I can wipe his face while he
is sleeping. Sometimes I stroke his toes, wait for
a smile.

I follow his cold curls with the finger that fits into
his knuckles that are gripped and waiting.

When I am older I will make him a sword made of wood
because I have seen a picture in a book of a tree that will
live forever

and I will write some words on paper, fold them small
and hide them.

When it is mother's turn to sweep the new dust
I will take my message and tie it to father's pointing finger.