Healing Waters, by Peter Neary-Chaplin

An angel stirred up the pool at noon
one bleak brown day in winter.
We dragged ourselves up,
on haunches, on crutches,
on brittle bones, on pressed pills and radium rays,
not racing any more these days,
preferring this half-dead unhealing,
so old we can finger only scars.
And no luck again today, nor soon.

But, as I sink back out of hope,
father's spirit gathers from the lucid lime-bright water,
rises like steam, coalesces towards me,
drags over the waters,
commands ordered columns from the shapeless vapour,
arms flung extravagantly wide,
forgives my sin,
softly seeping through my broken skin.

From My Mother is an Old Elephant, available here.