Father and the Silver Salver

As was his custom at
approx. 9a.m. he returned
from the yard for coffee,

would plant his cap on the
silver salver on the hall table
and announce he was home.

He’d been on the go from
6a.m. to yard, office, harbour.
He brought into the house

salt airs, left on the door-mat
sequins of herring scales
that flashed in sunlight.

On this fine morning the cap
did not leave the hand.
No salver. He minded

he’d met a couple, man
pushing a two-wheeled,
flat-topped float, wife

walking alongside with shut face.
On top a pile of rags, clothing,
mebbe all their wordly goods.

Down Victoria Street he went.
No sighting. The way south,
Saltoun Place, out of town,

he overtook them, paced them,
the while one hand lifting
the rags, slipping from them

the silver salver. No word spoken.
They went their way, he his.