Sunday Poem

READING MY SON TO SLEEP

Last night, for the first time, I went down the well

my father went down with me.

It plunged deeper than the back of the little skull

whose edge lay page-thin on the while pillow

and darker than the earth's dusk seeping in

to blot the secret passwords I spoke.

"Hello," I tested with each downladdering breath,

the letters pattering like rain in the murk

and echoing off the cavernous stone. A blink,

a butterfly's tentative settle, and the slight

way back had briefly closed.

Another blink, and I was left

with the aftersound of uttered entrance,

my eyes guttering, my arms loose as rope.

With an inward cry I could not help

I watched darkness flood the praying-book.

From The New Canon: An Anthology of Canadian Poetry (2005) by Tim Bowling.