A Sailor Lost At Sea - a poem

(HMNZS Endeavour with Penguin way back when)

I don’t think there is an emoji yet

for a sailor lost at sea in a storm or

The face that masks yours

when you receive an email from

your late father’s partner

who you remain civil with

and offer kindness to along with familial-love

out of sadness

and hope

and the history of thirty-eight years

The email reads:

Hello my Jane

Nice to hear from you

I was about to write

Because I sent

By courier

A parcel a couple of days ago

with Dad’s ashes

I’ve had them ten months already

And thought they would be better with you

Seeing the move is approaching

There is stuff everywhere

We are a gypsy caravan here

So you can make the decision

When you’d like to

& when you’ve decided what to do with them

The ashes

Let me know.

It’s a feeling of instant nausea

In a part of your anatomy you cannot identify

mixed with a tonne of disbelief

That a cannister of the cremated body parts

of a deceased loved one

A cherished parent

Michael Newcome beloved father of

Belinda and Jane

Is somewhere on an interisland courier van

In transit or awaiting collection

Because Courier Post, part of

NZ Post, does not actually deliver

to my address

Because we fall into the rural delivery zone

So the RD man, let’s call him Wayne, writes in black felt

‘Excess distance’ and signs it ‘RD’

and our packages get left at the pharmacy

where we have a post office box

sometimes for over a week

lost on the floor

among plastic bags of online shopping from

ASOS and

Amazon and

Ezibuy and

The Iconic

This all seems very unsatisfactory

and curious in the days of

Follow us on Instagram

And WIFI

and Bluetooth

and Netflix and Disney+ Channel

TV timeslip and

Drones capturing earth in microscopic detail from heaven

Flying to Mars and electric cars

But it all comes down to time

And petrol, I guess

Because my house is 900 metres from the main road

that’s 1800 metres the RD driver has to drive

out of his way

Time is precious

You never get it back

Just like bones.

Only the last paragraph

Didn’t happen

So soz, Courier Post for shaming you

This time

Because I went to clear my

Post box number two-one-two-five, on the Monday

And there was a yellow parcel card!

Wheee!

I was the first to step through the automatic doors

At 8.59 am, 23^rd July 2018

It was a white NZ Post parcel box

Size large
(postage spend: $13.70)

The boxes I’ve often sent stuffed with gaudily wrapped gifts

To family
At Christmas

I knew it was him straight away

Is it something nice? the sales assistant asked

You don’t want to know, I said

It’s a bit macabre, I muttered
I'll tell you one day

I sat limply in my car

I was hot

Not hormonal hot

Hot hot

A black VW truck pulled up beside me

The driver was waving

But I couldn’t make out who it was

Through the dark tinted windows

I opened my door

Oh hello! a friend said. You good?

She spied the box on the passenger seat beside me

What’s that? Something nice? she asked

That’s my Dad …

My eyes glistened but it wasn't time to cry

Oh that's weird, I think she said

I sobbed on the way home

Great convulsing sobs

They must have been brewing up and up

Waiting for a switch

An electrical storm

A stroke of lightning 

through the heart

My eyelashes were futile windscreen wipers

I should have pulled over

But like any good sailor in a storm at sea

I kept sailing

(Photographer of ships and birds, my Dad. Antarctica)