OK this isn't one that's just been written. But I've just had a shower and
remembered I'd got it somewhere between the lather and the rinse. It's an
occasional piece, written a week after the guy died, but it's not really had
an airing since... and I only remembered it because of grasshopper's bee
poem! I guess, as with all occsional pieces, they can sometimes feel like
yesterday's bread. But, whaddya think...
Oh, and there's a four-letter-word near the end! So, if you need to be, be
warned...
For C&C:
Huge Ted’s Last Morning
Say it anyway you want, he was abundantly private
even as a kid in the tobacconists in Mexborough
or re-walking through leaves above Mytholmroyd.
Whatever else he did he’s still the night-watchman,
the bee-keeper, the rose-gardener they’d known; a farmer
who’s now thin fingers you can hardly believe
yanked out a dead lamb, who’s ears still seem to hear
footballers in the Pennine rain, their violent words.
And the last salmon he caught’s still in the fridge,
its oil and pink weight collapsing in on itself
until all that remains is the language he gave us,
the books we’ll re-open, and the deep-vowelled
fuck, said with the nakedness of an old man
lifted from the bath for the last time.
Bob Cooper
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