Like in a John Wayne movie
my father stepped in out of the blinding sun
all the romantic Hollywood heroes rolled into one
like every soldier disembarking
from the tall sided troopships
duffel bag slung over his shoulder
the fierce desert sun making him look older –
there was nothing he couldn’t do

and every time they had a row over housekeeping money
she stopped a while, and saw him once again
giant against the glass ceiling of all that was mundane
and every Sunday, animosity was set aside
as they sat in their armchairs
watching the afternoon matinees
musicals from many years before
singing terrible sounding duos out of tune
or she would come up from the scullery
hands and arms covered in suds
hang over his chair, wet arms around his neck
bawling Forty-Second Street – he looked uncomfortable.

He scooped her up at fifteen on the bridge
where the unemployed men smoked and whistled
a freckled and dreamy girl
for three years he kept up the play act
of pretending never to drink alcohol
until they were married and the top tier of the wedding cake
was lifted by Linfield supporters running past
the café reception, being chased to the station.

As we got older, we thought we understood love
the stand-up fights, and tears, and taking herself off to bed
in the afternoon, her face turned to the wall
from a man who could barely read or write
who couldn’t find Cairo on a map
who lost all his teeth when young to pyorrhoea
yet, when he softened, and went sheepishly upstairs
she looked around when the unshaded light came on
and smiled to see how his shoulders filled the chipped doorway.