dad Poem by Adam Wyeth

I'll always remember those Sunday drives home.
How a blackening silence came over us
with the night. I'd look back at the road
we'd set out on when our weekend had begun:

singing songs, stopping at petrol stations
in the back of beyond, turning off the beaten
track and finding a pub for lunch -
with swings and climbing frames to play on.

But all that was fading fast, as signs marked
the dwindling miles, oncoming headlights
dazzled us, the final catseyes blinked past
and the road emptied - losing its nerve

as we curved off the motorway. Then the real
darkness set in - the chill of parting
making me numb. I'd run upstairs to my room
without a word spoken, and from the corner

of my window watch your silver Citroen slip
into the night; a final sliver of light then total eclipse.
Another week of staring into space in classrooms,
waiting for our next outing all together. Save mum.