Dad, in his Pegasus trunks, dark-
Him skinny and pale, he
Could only dive into the sea, not walk.
He had to have a no-going-back entry
Into the cold and the wet,
And every night a three mile walk uphill for a pint
Cursing the rabbit hole he fell into coming back once
Giving him an ankle like a snake that had swallowed a cricket ball.
The photos from then tell me we
Still held hands, and in each
One I’m looking up at him expecting something.