How I don’t miss my father

His mouth was a crevasse in the glacier.
His neck was middling like Wednesday.
His hair was the sheen on a ploughed furrow.
His cheeks were crème brulée ready for kiss.
His knee caps were F1 hybrid beetroots.

His tie was a menu of last week’s suppers.
His shirt was a map of the Milky Way.
His trousers were flapping sails of a tea clipper.
His braces were orange twine from the field gate.
His socks were Beethoven sonatas.

His handwriting was a rack for proof readers.
His snore was a wasp in an empty submarine.
His driving was a teenager on legal highs.
His philosophy was kindness to dumb animals.
His will was not found, so they got nothing.

• After Alice Walker’s “Poem at Thirty-Nine”


Vicki Morley, a person who admits to having worked at GCHQ and run two comprehensives, has always been interested in text. Her non-fiction work with Bernard Crick was published way back in the 80s. Now she writes short stories, and was runner up at 2013 and 2014 Fowey Festival short story competition, others have been read at Falmouth’s Telltales and Moonhut. She also writes poetry and has read at Golowan and Penzance literary festivals.

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