by Jean O'Neill
Sundays too my father sat up late
in overalls, murmuring lines from Robert Burns
as the loungeroom dimmed
around him and we skittered past
in nighties, deferring bedtime.
One sister had phoned the day before
asking for ‘seven thirty three please?’ and
the gruff voice intoned ‘midnight shift’.
We didn’t care to stop and hear of wild
whistling blackbirds or cowering tim’rous beasties.
What did we know of nights spent disembowling
a ship? Did he sing ‘A man’s a man for a’ that’
to pass the time til smoko?
Apologies to Robert Hayden