Dad.

Slack-skinned, sofa-pinned giant.

Hunched, pasty-faced, wasted.

At the heart of that Christmas,

but on the edge.

Saying little, watching all,

Soaking in life and love,

as Death stalked him.

 

The Twelve Days of Christmas.

The voice that filled theatres

now painfully weak.

But he got his line out.

Almost falsetto

Eight Maids a milking.

Eight hearts a breaking,

Silently urging him on.

What do young doctors know

of an old man's spirit?

Eight maids a milking

Which stand for the Beatitudes.

Blessed are they who mourn.

The beautiful attitudes.

Dignity - courage and dignity.

While the axe is at the root,

while the body collapses beneath.

His Christmas gift - hiding his hatred

of illness and weakness,

to protect us.

Eight Maids a Milking

Most precious Christmas moment. 

The Twelve Days of Christmas.

He would see them out and five more,

and then no more.

 

When my time comes

I want to be like him.

I want a Christmas like that

to see me on my way,

to seeing him again.