Poem: Filtering

A poem about pools. And fathers and sons. And filtering…

Richard’s dad said to Richard’s mum that he would like
to see their son. So, Richard’s mum called up the stairs
to let us know that was the plan. This was the way

the communications flowed in this house; always uphill.
Richard told me he had to go and see his dad out back
in the garden, by the pool. When I wondered why,

he scowled and told me this was their bonding moment.
His dad loved that pool, and it was always wise for Richard
to play along. Richard’s inner demons were only let out

when his parents were not around. So it was all about
how clear and blue and beautiful the pool looked. And
Richard’s dad was beaming. He never asked his son about

the fights at school, nor the things that happened in the
neighbourhood. None of that mattered if the pool was
blue and clear and sitting in perfect place under the

clear blue sky as well. For all that Richard’s dad could see
was good.And Richard’s mum would hold off any bad news
at the kink in the stairwell by the laundry chute.