From time to time the dead come
for their allotted meeting like prisoners,
jostling, and sit on the bench to wait.
The hands of the carver
recognise each face.
My father is among them.
To him I go first, assuring him
that he is always first for me,
as if he needed
this reassurance.
Martin TURNER
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/dreaming-of-the-dead/
