Pub, 7pm

It is a low church,
without sober prayer,
rough years, sixty-plus,
blinded Sky-high stare:

Unaltered transfix,
upon sports, by God,
across the green sod.

They tip their flat pints,
on last sure-winners,
each sup a delay,
to home-cooked dinners:

Stood tall-table straight,
with concentric rings,
beer becomes central,
at last order’s rings.

Everything is easy, there is no difficulty

Called, I entered
‘The Departure Lounge’
renamed, a rare-shared joke,
for that downstairs room;
here my father sobbed
with cancer’s slow burn.

Sat upright, explaining a dream,
for the first time in our lives,
(me, twenty-something,
then, no reader of such things),
with his simple review:
‘I saw my mother,’ he explained.

Nan had passed on ten years before.
‘She said.. everything is easy, there is no difficulty..’
In that moment, with his head-held,
Dad licensed me to cry before my kids,
to find comfort in dreams,
and to speak with the dead.

Wedding Photos

Met, in ill-fitting suits,
Best man-made bad speeches;
‘It’s all about the bride’:
Slurs and white-dress-hitches.

Relatives move-tortured,
across the first-danced floor;
Loose-tied, high-drunken, ensembles,
knocking back more, more, more!

Bitter-pill hangover honeymoon,
over seven-ish burnt days;
Their love sobers slowly
after the wedding’s farcical play.