In dreams

Evening Ritual

There he is again;

Then there is always pain

every time seeing him

is it just a mental whim?

Thoughts in my head

of my father, a long time dead,

standing at the Belfast sink

what brings me racing to that link?

The image takes me so far back

something my heart and I still lack?

Stripped down to his waist,

the image I then faced

after he came home from work.

passing me a weary loving smirk.

his old trade bike propped against the wall,

I sat on the front of that when I was small.

A big cup of tea he’d brew;

Then the next thing he would do

was shut the scullery door with a wink,

as he stood bare chested

at the Belfast sink.

Music has always been a joy to me,

I listened, whilst I ate my chips

my dad whistling through his teeth

and never through his rounded lips.

My mother sang and music played

the radio each day, just blared away

a wide range of programmes

and to any music I would sway.

My Dad had played the cornet

or mill works brass band horn,

taught by his well known uncle

long before I was born.

He joined the Salvation Army band

at the bandstand there was no doubt.

We’d listen happily as they played

smiling to ourselves inside and out.

Pocket Photo

Wearing a light summer frock

Patterned design of little flowers

A small boy of seven or eight years old

Leans on his Mum's right leg

With a serious sad sullen expression

Eyes on the camera lock

On the mothers other knee

A small girl

Little more than a baby

Hair, ribbon tied, a curly shock

A ringlet falls over her forehead

A satin bow fights to hold an unruly lock

Both children reflect the look in mother’s eyes

Both sadly missing their soldier Father

Away serving in the Army

In his regiments Army block

The war not over until

Some years have passed

And by then the little girl

Is as old as the boy is in the photograph

The image sits beneath the clock

The professional photo taken

As a reminder that whilst he fights for his country

To keep his family safe.

Their worried faces

A reminder of how much they love him

How badly they want him to come home again.

The photo now a crumpled block

Kept in a pocket next to his heart

All through those

Terrifying war years

When the huge searchlights

Of night skies take stock

When sirens wailed

Before bombs dropped.