When my father died

When my father died I cared
but little for his memory;
a memory impaired
by bitterness in me.

Those days of mourning were sad
for those who cared - but how could I?
It is foolish and bad
to think of those who die.

Those were my thoughts at the time
and they may or may not be true -
I only know that I
am mourning now - a feeling new.

So new to me and yet
so old it seems - and now I know
where previously we met -
a girl it was, two years ago.

And so I hope that it will
again pass as it did before
so that I may fulfil
that which my soul implores.

Should it refuse to go,
then what I was two years ago
is what I’ll always be
and Heaven I’ll never see.