You worked at your lathe,
made tools for the war,
rode your bicycle
to the cold walls of the factory,
then played your guitar.
Now,
the tide is out.
All the bones of our lives
are exposed.
Sea fans lie limp on the rocks.
We are becoming rock, water and air.
Disappearing without a voice.
I listen for the strings
that lifted up your songs.
Only now,
do I understand
the love of your eyes.
The water of sadness.
I listen,
and the strings are broken.
The guitar split in two
like a heart that failed.
Father,
I listen.
I can hear you sing.
The strings are joined
between us.
I kiss your eyes
and taste the sea.
We are becoming invisible.
Father,
who I love,
play your guitar.
Not all the songs are gone.
I will listen.
I will sing them.
Write down the notes.
Tell others,
who you were.