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‘My Father as a Fly’ by Marion Oxley
He came from a place where sunlight was goldenspreading across the first burnt crusts of the day. A shredded, bitter-sweet place where generations movedup from stinking gutters to sit at crisp, white tablecloths. He’d wanted none of it once the lid had been lifted offthe black-faced, curly headed dolls, wide smiles, red banana lips. He…
1 minute
He came from a place where sunlight was golden
spreading across the first burnt crusts of the day.
A shredded, bitter-sweet place where generations moved
up from stinking gutters to sit at crisp, white tablecloths.
He’d wanted none of it once the lid had been lifted off
the black-faced, curly headed dolls, wide smiles, red banana lips.
He didn’t want to be stuck in this place of labels, tokens, badges.
A lifetime of lip service, syrupy sweetness making him vomit.
So over time he changed. Found sustenance in the outdoors
became more in tune with nature. Feet walking over dead-eyed sheep.
Tasted kitchen waste, sucked in, thought only now of air miles.
I find him wrapped in a silk shroud, swinging gently
caught in the breeze between a dangle of white, Bleeding Heart
like her earrings and the yellow floribunda Peace rose, he always loved.
Meet the Poet!
Marion Oxley lives in the Calder Valley, West Yorkshire. She has had poems previously published in a wide range of poetry magazines, journals and anthologies. Most recently Atrium, Obsessed with Pipework, Bangor Literary Journal, The Alchemy Spoon, Smoke and Channel. Her debut pamphlet In the Taxidermist’s House was published last year with 4Word Press.
