LIZ WINFIELD


My father the fire maker


The chemical smell
of a struck match,
the glow of a cigarette-end,
an indrawn breath
and my father's face softened,
as smoke trailed away like lazy
summer clouds,
then the smoke from the cigarette
would dawdle an idling streamer
to the smoke-stained ceiling.

This was when my father's knee
was unguarded, and he'd leak
stories, songs and laughter.

In the mornings of Dad's days off
sunshine would spear through fog
and the smoke would light the kitchen blue.
My mother would leave the plastic
on pictures hung in our house
and always chose the same-sized calendars
to fit the smoke-frames on the walls.

Once my father painted the kitchen
a peach colour,
and my mother's breath
smelled like fruit for weeks.