Iachi Da, Dafydd! Seen much of your Dad of late?
He’s sixty-five now, isn’t he, or do I exaggerate?
I can still remember the way that Harry plaited
your little sister’s pigtails like a Grecian caryatid.
I can still remember him as a jerking bantamweight
who wouldn’t punch for minutes but would circumnavigate
the boxing ring, and then, with neither eyelid batted,
early in the yawn chorus, he’d lay the fellow splatted
on the floor. It saved a lot of cauliflower ears,
asparagus bottom lips, paralysis and tears.
Do you remember when he sat you on his leather pillion
and drove us to the coast and to that field with the pavilion?
I watched, from out the sidecar on a lumpy autobahn
the festival a-glimmering around a llama farm.
I still can see that porky wasp inside the reggae tent,
turning sway to flail, to swivelling-dreadlocked discontent.
Old Harry caught it in his hands and issued it a warning.
Unhindered then, we skanked to Lee Scratch Perry till the morning.
Dave, old spatula, your Dad, he’s one in several million.
I think he must’ve lightened up the day he turned civilian.
Do you recall that holiday, when the three of us threw
stones for half an hour at a metal barbecue?
Each stone he lobbed alighted in the place where it was meant,
when most of our attempts were off, their flight-paths somewhat bent.
I hope the owners of the place were easily placated,
returning to their home to find the driveway had migrated.
“I saw my Dad last week,” you said. “He’s had a little visit
from the boys in blue for doing something quite illicit.”
I chuckled, “Silly sod! Tax embezzlement, is it?
Something fraudulent, I’ll wager. Lordy, how exquisite!
Do tell, with all of the embellishment you can afford.”
You started to explain with a slight air of filial scorn,
“A week or two ago now he got nicked,” and I guffawed
out loud, before you added, “for downloading child porn.”