his young brother
‘ He didn’t answer his phone that morning, even after I called a couple of times so I rang up the Doctor and we met over at Bronte, where he lived. I had a key. This was something we had discussed a few years ago. Him living alone as he did.
He was still in bed, lying on his back with his arms folded. I sleep that way myself.
But he was gone, he had died overnight.’
This cold old man lying properly dead,
his gnarled old arms crossed over, and the creased book he put aside earlier, for now
for him, forever unread.
His room’s breathing quiet, in observance still
of this good soul’s transference, now down to God’s will.
This faithful young brother, the father of fathers. The joker, the golfer – the man who competed without any rancour
– even when the card had its score in some other’s favour.
There is much to say of this man that I loved,
this good uncle, my father’s young brother.
And I still owe you Col, and I will pay,
– the next time the Randwick Greens rule the day.