Last night, my sister Andrea was at the bedside of her mother-in-law
as Joan passed to the next world. This poem is in memory of a true lady.

at passing
(for Joan Doran)

if one could give
a tanka in her honour
it would speak to beads
and unfamiliar sound
of her rosary, singing,

speaking memory.
she would live again inside
six strong and distant men,
each strong generation passed
to the rising moon

to hold her as she
slips away. west, something new
opens to a surging sea
while smoke, unfurled,
wisps slowly past closed eyes.

never again will
we like the colour yellow.
he puts these fine brushes down
to search for stillness, finds it
in another art, their sons.