My father fading out

Each time I recall him he’s grown

thinner and paler, am I

making myself clear he shouts

from the hearthstone, already

I see almost through him

asleep at the fire, exhausted

evening by evening, his crossed feet

pink and opaque at the open oven door.

If he slams out now it will be

fainter and shake the house less,

less curl to his lip for his bosses –

Reggie Rat, Charlie Woods, Wallace Dixon.

For them he went topping and tailing

bent through the frozen turnips,

or stooking in summer pitched his fork

high in the air in blind sudden anger.

Now he fades out, the wireless

plays him to sleep, he wakes, asks news,

sees in the coals the black flag of a stranger,

dozes again, then is gone completely.