Terminal Poem by Charl JF Cilliers

Early morning. Horses steaming
in their paddocked solitude.
I remember
what your father said.

His images and mine
of you are now long gone.
But I remember.
“Only the best for her, ”
he said.

My cold breath ghosts
the air.
“No hopeless lout for her, ”
he said.

The horses steam
and stir
as if they had some place to go.

“Not art and poverty
and only the currency of dreams, ”
he said.

And so you slowly began to fade
away.
Until this morning;
when your small voice came.

“All these years alone, ”
you said.

I echoed “yes”.
“The tumour has spread.”

For a moment
I could not comprehend
what it was you had
just said.