(my Father) Rain Tomorrow Poem by Janice Windle

'Nice day Dad! '
He sits in the conservatory,
wrapped in his tartan rug,
cats weaving round his knees,
while in the garden, all around,
the sun is beating bravely down
and red hot pokers dip and wave
in balmy summer breeze.

'Nice day, Dad! '
as I bring him my bright smile
he tilts his head, enquiring
(is that really what I said?)
the thistledown that rings his crown
dips towards the hollow chest -
he looks again at me, amazed -
and do I speak in jest?

'Nice day Dad! '
as I bring the milky coffee
that he will leave to cool
and patiently he smiles,
dabs with a wavering finger
where the previous one congeals.

'Nice day Dad!
Fancy some air Dad? '...
he shakes his head.
'Oh no, he sighs,
'Cold wind, rain soon...'
he doesn't add,
'In any case, tomorrow
I might very well be dead.'