Father’s Day…

Just realised, as somebody (not Ben) has just wished me a happy one on Twitter.

We didn’t have father’s day when I was little, but here’s a poem I wrote a couple of years ago about my dad.


Dad plays the piano
Ripples dancing across the surface of his G&T
In time with his flying fingers.
Notes swirl in the air like wind-blown autumn leaves
Falling on deaf ears…
We’d rather watch A Christmas Carol on the tiny black and white TV
Or play with the toys we haven’t broken yet
That we found gift-wrapped at the foot of our beds
In that magic hour between five and six
That belongs to children alone on Christmas morning.

Smoke spirals from the ashes of his thin cigar
Resting in the ashtray on the upright’s polished lid

Stirred by the breeze from the open kitchen door
Where mum labours over turkey and trimmings.
It curls through clouds of paper-chains and bright balloons
A Will o’ the Wisp dancing towards heaven
Staining the white sky of polystyrene tiles
With his presence.

He left that summer, his departure unannounced.
I woke to the sound of my mother’s pain

And crept downstairs to find her weeping in the kitchen
Tears staining the single sheet of paper she clutched in her hand
While my sister hugged her close and stroked her hair
Whispering words of comfort.

Two decades pass:
Uncertain glances on an evening train

‘Excuse me, but are you my father?’
‘I think I might be,’ he says,
And we smile as he steps to the platform below,
Puffing on his inhaler.
We’re still smiling when the train pulls away.
He looks smaller than I remembered.

Ten more years:
My own sleeping child stirs in my arms

As a ringing telephone cuts the morning silence.
Later, in a garden peopled with strangers,
I hold my weeping sister close and stroke her hair
Whispering words of comfort.
We stand aside as the strangers melt away
Our eyes lifted to heaven
Tracing the trail of spiralling smoke
That stains the sky with his presence.


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