At Dusk The Old Zinc Roof Creaks

At dusk the old zinc roof creaks
like Dad’s Chev with its fins
or the big old branch of the blue-gum tree
and when it gets dark mother calls me in,
Dad is reading the sentences of an essay
where he is marking composition books,
at times works late into the night
and there’s jasmine on the wind,
when the neighbour suddenly drives off
and he finds some time for me.

poem by Gert Strydom
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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