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.