Leaving for Myanmar, tender love brushes my cheek,
ineluctable softness of her skin,
as rare as the musked gazelles on the Changtang plateau.
‘You’re not hopeless as a Daddy’,
her last remark floats delicately in the air.
‘I’m hopeless at touching my toes,’ I retort,
grounding my overworked destiny.
So much pain, all the way back to the cot.
Yet my daughter has spoken, after eleven years,
my trauma-childhood, nailed in perpetual shock, is redeemed.
She is walking backwards now up the hill, waving to me,
as if directing a plane to land.
Then she is gone ….
Momentarily forsaken, more pervasively, alone.
Across the bereaved, green haze of Myocum fields,
I am spreadeagled on bedrock,
bedrock of grief