Night Watch

Night Watch

Hours after a silent meal,
Wounds of his heart still fresh
From my mother's precise cuts,
My father stepped from the dark kitchen
Onto the deck and the deep winter air.
I watched in the shadows of the garage, Invisible,
As he raised the pint to his lips,
Drinking carefully,
Looking into the dark spaces of February
Sending out soft plumes of breath
Across the white moon.

He began to whistle, rare for him,
A curious sound,
It went: wee-o-weet, wee-o-weet,
As if he were calling a dog.
But it came too slowly,
A sound not expecting much.
A dog, raising its head, would know
It was meant for someone else.

I stayed motionless, afraid of discovery,
Embarrassed to see him like this,
His slight frame hunched against the cold,
Wee-o-weet, he would call, a signal, perhaps,
To some patient ally,
Listening, having paused in the woods,
Who might emerge
Into the deep snow of the distant treeline.

Finally, cold myself, I left him there,
Whistling, then listening, sipping steadily,
Calling home, it seemed,
Some familiar silhouette, a shape,
A spirit remembered from long ago,
To come stand with him,
A younger man, agile and sure,
Might come now from the treeline,
Through the deep snow to stand with him,
Might come now and stand with him
Against all these mounting losses,
Beneath all these cold and useless stars.