(An old, withered hand in mine)

An old, withered hand in mine
Is my last memory of him.
He rode away on the wind.
I was ten. Confused.
I shut the door to my room.
The silence within the walls
Dried my tired eyes.
It sang to me songs of solitude.
My ears got drunk.
My tongue forgot
The colour of its own voice.
I was a captive in my room.
Visions of years. They danced by.
September knocked upon my door.
I realised that
I wasn’t afraid of September anymore.
I looked back. I looked at myself.
Thought set me free.
I opened the door to my room.
The sea that lay within
Came out, a drop at a time,
Over breakfast.