father, son and white lightning

father, son and white lightning

a summer evening,
time spent together
in the front garden,
as the sun slips down
the back of the settee.

together you rifle through a bin bag.

dad watches you proudly
as he slouches against the perimeter wall,
a sticky pint glass balanced on his gut,
tired eyes, a waiting avalanche.

you hold up one thing after another,
as dad shakes his head slowly
from side to side.
with the movement of a broken clock.

perched on the wall,
is a three litre bottle of white lightning.

if it could talk,
it would be shouting ‘I’ll be Mum’.

Mum left a long time since.