At the house where I lived as a child

my father comes out of the blue front door in his slippers.

The bonnet of our Triumph Herald’s tilted forward –

he’s letting the gargling radiator drink

as much as it needs from a heavy, flowered jug:

the frown on his forehead is a crease 

on the surface of a stream. And singing

Younger than Springtime to herself

my mother appears at the back just as he goes in,

like Rain and Fine in a house of balanced weather.

It’s another glorious day as I walk up the drive,

clunk the bonnet closed on its sprung clip

and latch the two chrome levers into place

so it won’t come open by accident.