Friday, 17 July 2015


He came home with them,
laid them down
on the dining room table,
cellophaned exotica.

My father, back from India
or the UAE, took off
his uniform, returned to
light through French windows.

In that room, whose furniture
pieces were like so many
precise coordinates,
Mum vased those bright flowers.

They were part – I'd assume –
of their latest negotiations.

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