Her father embarked at sunrise
with a flask of water, a samurai sword
enough fuel for a one-way
journey into history
but half way there, she thought,
recounting it later to her children,
he must have looked far down
at the little fishing boats
strung out like bunting
the dark shoals of fishes
flashing silver as their bellies
swivelled towards the sun
And though he came back
my mother never spoke again
in his presence,
nor did she meet his eyes
and the neighbours too
only we children still chattered and laughed
till gradually we too learned
to be silent,
And sometimes, she said, he must have wondered
which had been the better way to die.