The King's Poets

Breaking Ice

The kitchen crackles
with oil-besmattered sausages.

His words surprise me.
They are friendly
and the silence has lasted
icily long.

My father’s tone is calm,
a languid, almost purring baritone.

Trying to connect, we talk
of past Christmas’s, cricket,
our family’s past disastrous house moves

- and he hands me a peace offering:
slabs of bacon enveloped
in an aromatic pool
of smiled-on tomato juice.