Sheets of rain roll down 
the windows of the car –
my dad is behind the wheel, 
alive again, as I ask him
how he can see where he’s driving? 

At that, he puts his foot down, 
passes me his hip-flask and says – 
we’re almost there son,
before he slams on the brakes 
and tells me that they’ve 
only let him back for one night, 
so we need to make the most of it
and at that I watch as he steps out 
of the car and into the night, 
as the rain soaks him to the bone,
whilst he stands there looking amazed
raising his arms to the sky –
feeling the rain against his skin again 
and I hate it, but I know then 
that I’ve finally accepted his fate 
and having him back, 
complicates things in a way I could 
not have foreseen before.

Suddenly, he moves off and I follow him
as we shelter beneath a tree and laugh,
until I forget about everything else –
passing the hip-flask between us, 
before I look over there’s nothing 
but an empty space where he’d been – 
as the rain starts to stop
and the sun slowly rises again, 
like some metaphor for life. 

Gwil James Thomas is a poet, novelist and inept musician. He lives in his home town of Bristol, England but has also lived in London, Brighton and Spain. His most recent poetry chapbooks are Part English, Part Welsh, Part Wolf (Scumbag Press), The Labourer Poems (Hickathrift Press) and Gold Chains Around our Necks, Hellhounds at our Heels (Holy & Intoxicated Publications).