The Ghost Of My Father

I'm haunted by the ghost of my father.
He stalks a parallel universe that
I glimpse occasionally in shop windows.
I say occasionally, but, honestly,
It's becoming more and more frequent now.
And I’m slowly having to come to terms
With peripheral images that once shocked.


Dad was there when my new passport arrived,
Staring at me from pages two and three.
And in all the latest holiday snaps
He is standing, smiling, there at the back.
Worst of all though, every morning when I
Look in the mirror, it’s him there, not me.
I am simile become metaphor.

Three Oncologists

Three figures though the blur of tears;

Peering at you over their shoulders.
An X-ray.
Indistinct mass:
Soft edged but tumour-dense.
The streaks of blood vessels feeding growth. Carrying off cells to      metastasize elsewhere?

Three oncologists conferring quietly,
Regardingly, confidently.
An X-ray.
Indistinct mass,
Visibly shrinking at the margins.
The streaks of blood vessels carrying drugs to their target.

Three scientists fading into the background,
Their work done.
An X-ray.
Indistinct mass,
Fading fast.
The streaks of tears on joyful cheeks.