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The Spirit Of Mr.Woodley 

"I watch my daughter place the flowers
Over me; wipe a tear, and smile;
The smile, more effulgent than the flowers,
Lingers on; The smile matters;
The smile that can alter the scent of death.
Not a Sunday she has missed, ever;
Not a Sunday when I haven’t watched her sit
By me, and talk about the love of her life
And smile demurely; I wish she knew
I listened to her; I wish she knew how I
Loved to see her in the lovely yellow frock
And how I wish she hadn’t coloured her locks;
I am alive, now, for I watch her fall asleep into
The bosom of womanhood; I am just
Invisible, to the eyes that still carry tears;
Death is the finality; This I had known and believed;
The decisiveness in it; the conclusiveness;
But in death did I realise the worth of living;
And that none in the world mattered, but
The ones who call me back.”

“My daughter, if you are listening, I shall never be
Too asleep to watch you run your fingers
Over the name of your father;
I see the same moon, the same stars
In the dark of this unruffled night;
And I wish I could tell you the names
Of those who have forgotten how they look;
So varied are their masks; But you must
Stand tall, in the masquerade, and smile;
You need not a disguise, but the wisdom
To identify one; For not all shall cry after
One leaves; I know, I have seen.
You must have ears to listen to one self
For you won’t find a better teacher.
And finally, my dear, you must pour
All of your goodness into your child;
For one day all shall know how rare, and precious,
True tears on a grave really are.”

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