Through slats of sunlight,
I see my father’s leg thrown over
the arm of his chair,
in our suburban house.
I sit on the floor, so close to him
I smell the smoke from his cigarette,
the weave and heat of tweed.
He is lost in this quiet light, in memories
before me. The first night they made love
over and over. The look of her.
My mother sits in her dressing gown
fading to the blue of late summer hydrangeas.
A pink corset sits on the kitchen table.
She thinks of a girl,
who sank into haystacks, who loved
to tease and be teased, her body then,
shifting in her summer dress.
The air sweet with meadow.
I see them in a black Ford car
a small white box between them.
Love can be so silent.
Next door our neighbours
plain as brown paper, watch our pear trees
shade their loganberries and their lawn.
They listen to The Archers and take
homemade lemonade and biscuits
out on the grass at eleven.
Out front in winter and summer
our cherry tree sprinkles white
on the road, our dog Darkey small as a rat
chases the tyres of cars.
I take off my tights
I take off my knickers and walk
down to the village
in my bare feet.