My Dad came back again last night
as if he’d never been away.
We sat out on the deck, drank whiskey,
cut with ice from the hard edged moon.
We talked about Marmite and Oscar Wilde,
the state of the nation and how to recognise good steak.
Looking at him in that light
I saw the man I knew for just a while,
before his memories
outweighed his future.
His eyes claimed back their laughter,
our hands were steady as we raised a glass.
Waning with the moon
towards the horizon
he left me to myself,
to chink his empty glass,
and seek the warmth indoors.
John has spent forty years sitting behind a desk tapping at the keys of a computer for ten hours a day and writing about Investment Banking. Freed from the yoke of the capitalist oppressor he now sits behind a desk for five hours a day and writes about whatever he likes. Then he goes and walks the dog.