Father

He is sulphur, he is fire
and brimstone, he is deep
shame, the colour of night,
sound of slamming doors.

He is bitterest regrets,
dark chocolate, olives and kale,
The Telegraph and Magritte’s
pipe, the treachery of images.

Moments replayed on repeat,
light goes on underneath a door,
locking of bedrooms, moss and ivy
on windows, a crack of light, still.

The air sours with acrid shampoo,
turgid reek of cigars and alcohol,
it’s hard to pretend and play at
happy families, rigor mortis grin.

We cling to positives, desperate,
distressed, we do it to ourselves,
you do realise that, don’t you?
Stilted breath sucked from rooms.

Peter Devonald is a multi-award-winning Stockport writer. Winner Broken Spine Readers’ Choice Award 2025, Loft Books Best Poem 2024, Waltham Forest 2022, FofHCS, two HoH’s, runner-up Shelley Memorial and N2tS 2024. Widely-published/anthologised. Forward Prize, two BotN and Children’s Bafta nominated.  linktr.ee/pdevonald   x.com/petedevonald