I remember dad sitting and reading each evening after dinner once he and me had washed up in the galley kitchen.
After, I remember him stripping down to the waist and body washing at the sink, then completing his evening shave.
I remember his big old badger shaving brush and a shaving mug refilled with Old Spice.
I remember the odour, filling the kitchen and sticking to him.
But mostly I remember him in his white vest in the brown armchair under the warm standard lamp, feet up by the fire, reading his books.
Wilbur Smith. Alastair MacLean. Jack Higgins.
The Sound of Thunder. Ice Station Zebra. Wrath Of The Lion.
Always a hardback. Always a loaner from the regular family trips to the woods and the library.
Always sitting in his heady mix of Old Spice, Brylcreem and St Bruno, reading and relishing the opportunity to pass the book on to me telling me of his envy of my first read of the adventure he’d just finished.
If I can do with words what your lips do with kisses The pen will be a weapon the poem becomes your weakness So wean these words willingly the way I hold to your lips and savour the “ I Love You” and kiss me, like this