Father’s Day 2020. A poem by Siobhan Tworney

They feel he is slipping, each phone call starts
with the clearing of a ditch thick with brambles.
I must wield a slasher, before the conversation can begin.

The past months of barricading, of calendar day sameness
the lack of prospect of a trip, a hotel meal, a Spiritual celebration
even a blood test, nothing to wear a tie for,
life in the living room, listening for the numbers.

On coming out he bears the daze of one on release from a hospital ward
whitewashed, stunned by sunlight, the pitch of his voice
much louder than required, trialling the measure of his steps
he thrills at the meeting of a new acquaintance, vigorously
shakes his hand.

Bio & Link
Siobhan Twomey is an acupuncturist and reflexologist from Lismore in Co Waterford. She has been published in Poetry Bus magazine.

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