The house is tall and dark.
full of corners.
also boxes, pots
and silent, insistent slivers
of people who have been funeralled
in the full Welsh manner
with Respect.

In that room, when the sun
suddenly shifts the shadows
in a momentary gap
I have almost seen Pop.
Almost.
His eyes, darkly suspicious
his lips clamping back humour.

And gone.

Only unspoken thoughts
and a space between the sunlight.