Low Light

Evening again, and the kitchen
holds the last of the sun
like a cup it doesn’t want to put down.

My father at the sink,
sleeves pushed up,
washing one plate for a long time.

Out in the yard the light
goes amber, then blue,
then whatever colour
the word is for almost.

He dries his hands.
He looks at me
the way you look at a road
you used to take to work.

I want to tell him
stay, but the kettle
says it first.