Ten Days To My Father's Death

by sarah das gupta

The hospital told me again,

they wanted to stop his food.

I asked how long would it last?

Not the food but the man.

He wanted to get on-

the hawk ready to fly,

the hay sweet, smelling of

crushed poppies and white clover.

The half bottle of navy rum on

the table in the shed among

the seed potatoes.

The celandine is not waiting.

In the folded moss beneath the oak

the wood anemones are in bloom.

Don’t they remember he noticed

that faintest blush of pink,

as they bend before the wind?

‘About ten days’

‘Ten days’, I repeat to my mother.

She’s puzzled. She who’s cooked

for him over sixty years.

She does not understand.