Fen - 6
I half suspect my father acted in spite.
Coming home early one day, and feeling
what guilt he managed, he threatened me
to be less sullen, then tried joking, before
taking me to the shop, without promise.
As the dutiful son, I sided with mummy
in their war. Not that it didn't wound
when the small acts like drawing a picture
of me and him together, were rebuffed.
I can't say I was frightened of him, just
grown tried of trying. And each greased slight
chaffed a little more until I grew as hard
as his hands, ingrained with the soot of oil
from engines that would soon need repairing
again. The day was so hot that a Mivvi
would drip on the second lick. Lightings streaked
sudden thunder as we crossed the road.
In the cool of the shop I place my wrist the glass
of the refrigerated counter, where a single
tray of bacon turned green beside tubbed brawn,
as he chatted with David about this and that,
swiping the coins rasping from the dropped
handful, to pay for the cigarettes and matches.
Then looking down, he nodded, and I ran
like I did in the bean bag race, to the sweets
before he could change his mind, without breath,
without thought, without looking, straight into
the lighted cigarette that burned my left eye.
And I cried. And I cried, and ate Opal Fruits
as we watched the cricket, and I, like Micheal Holding
made him grovel.
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