Clearing from the nocturnal fields
like the white owl, memory seized
us after we sang exile’s bitter
herbs and drank the turbulent wine
that hurt us as your son, mourning
his mother’s sudden death, rejected you,
tearing up the cheque you gave him.
You left. Like the impeccable
snow reflecting our inner peace, all
too suddenly, his striated eyes turned
inwards a soaring whiteness,
barely spot-streaked, night-gliding,
with wind-harnessed wings, crossed
our road, shearing our darkness.