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.