Sean Walsh

Sure we were hardly gone –
treading Friday afternoon traffic –
when she was on the phone,
ringing round, spreading the word:
Jenny’s got a free gaffe…

‘Back that Sunday evening.
Return to hearth, home – oh, no?!
Jenny in her room at the
top of the stairs –
dreading the Yale key turning…
the front door… opening, closing.
The deafening silence as we stood
in the hall, the penny dropping…

The hurt, disappointment, let-down…
The creepy-crawly sensation of intruders
‘been and gone:
from kitchen to bathroom,
fridge to attic…
stale cigarette smoke…
empty bottles… broken glass.
And worse by far – broken promises…

Anger, then. Rising to rage.
In my voice as I called up the stairway:
“Jenny! Come down here this minute!..”

Then quietly, Ann at my elbow:
“She’s only twelve…Far too young to –
We were wrong to go off and leave her…
We’re to blame – not her, still a child…”

Sean checking… ‘reducing to simmer.
‘Not the first time she had come
between Dad and daughter…

Sean Walsh