Last Kiss. Poem by Terry Collett

You probably wore
the red Christmas jumper
just a few times
that last Christmas,
my son, and captured
on celluloid, unknown
to us your final photo.

I sit in the armchair
you sat in that time,
you smiling at the camera,
gazing back with your large eyes,
a detected hesitation
in your features as if
an echo of your death
tingled along the wires
of your nerves.

You wore black
fingerless mittens
on your hands,
even indoors by the radiator
you felt the cold
of winter outside;
but you my stoic philosopher
said nothing of this,
your lips sealed,
as they were a month later
for my final kiss.