Friday, 2 June 2017


                                                    The decanters locked in the cabinet
                                                    with cocktail sticks and duty-free cigars
                                                    were the perks of the job, my father’s,
                                                    finally getting to fly at thirty-five.
                                                    They came out for parties, those nights
                                                    when friends came round to drink gin
                                                    while he ran through his latest slides –
                                                    New York, Nairobi, Tehran,
                                                    skyscrapers and street markets
                                                    under the same pellucid sun.

                                                    Never good to think how the years go by.
                                                    They’re not like turnings off a street
                                                    we didn’t take and can now revisit.
                                                    Those were his moments as each click
                                                    brought up another photograph,
                                                    and the decanters went round
                                                    and the neighbours talked and laughed
                                                    and the world looked just slightly larger.

Image: Marina Shiderova; text: Tom Phillips

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