In memory of my father-in-law, a farmer and winemaker who was kissed by the Sun.
The Man with the Hat who greets the dawn
and the valley spreads its wings before him
will not be coming out today.
Blackbirds invaded the weepy willow again.
They’re bigger than black,
their voices go unnoticed.
The Man with the Hat left a widow.
But she does not feel a widow yet.
That will come come with each drop of rain
muddying the yard
in search of his footsteps.
He won’t roll up his sleeves
to hold the Sun in his palms and kiss it.
In truth of the truths, it was the Sun that kissed him.
One day in the vineyard, just like that – a kiss of death shot from the sky,
a deadly cupid with a cancer arrow.
How could you do that, to burn my love? To scorch his skin?
They say his soul is still wondering the Earth.
For 40 days, he still visits his home.
That is why his widow hangs his favourite shirt on the front door.
His bed is made, there’s bread and water to quench his thirst
and a towel in the window.
Today, the Sun keeps touching the window
brazen, as if it didn’t cause enough grief,
it wants to see the Man with the Hat one last time.
The breeze sneaks him in on the dust from the road.
The towel trembles,
The room shines up for a moment and suddenly it’s overcast.
The fridge is humming, the curtains are stale.
Her head is down, remains of the flour on the table he writes: ‘I should have held your hand a bit longer.
Good bye my love’.