> Hello Arthur,
               Like Bob, I think this piece is really wonderful. I just love the way you describe the sensations imagined in attending the funeral and the pathos of remembering the irretrievable past. Your ending fits perfectly well and reads naturally and spontaneously. If this was mine, though, I would definitely think very hard about the possibility retaining the `I won´t go´ refrain. I wonder if that mightn´t somehow emphasise the irretrievability of the past and shut it out. I don´t know which side I´d finally come down on and probably you´ve already considered it anyway. But, interesting point, how greatly would such a change alter the overall tone of the poem?



Best wishes,   Mike


> Lähettäjä: Bob Cooper <[log in to unmask]>
> Päiväys: 2004/05/04 ti PM 05:27:32 GMT+03:00
> Vastaanottaja: [log in to unmask]
> Aihe: Re: For Matt; part two
> 
> Hi Arthur,
> I think this is one of the best written pieces I've read this year! It says
> things about places, experiences, feelings, I don't think I'll forget.
> Bob
> 
> 
> >From: Arthur Seeley <[log in to unmask]>
> >Reply-To: The Pennine Poetry Works <[log in to unmask]>
> >To: [log in to unmask]
> >Subject: For Matt; part two
> >Date: Tue, 27 Apr 2004 13:03:54 +0100
> >
> >Hi Matt, glad to see you enjoying the best game in the world.
> >My dream of heaven is to be going out to bat with geoff Boycatt and saying'
> >OK, Geoff, I'll take first knock.'
> >I am seventy-two next and my days of sunshine, cut grass and the sound of
> >ball on bat are long gone. I nod hello to many a grey head around town,
> >knowing them from the game and having played with or against them and no
> >more than that.
> >At seventy two this is the sort of thing that happens:
> >
> >
> >Evening News.
> >
> >
> >
> >Carr, Stuart James. Quietly, at home...
> >
> >Ha! So Staggers is dead then.
> >
> >
> >
> >Should I go or not? We weren't really friends,
> >
> >members of the same team that held glory aloft
> >
> >for two seasons running, forty years ago.
> >
> >He worked in a factory or something, I think.
> >
> >
> >
> >  I shall probably be busy on the day
> >
> >and the weather will be miserable.
> >
> >I hate standing around
> >
> >as the Vicar mouths an eulogy
> >
> >over someone he never knew.
> >
> >
> >
> >Then after,
> >
> >trying to find something to say that sounds right
> >
> >looking at my shoes
> >
> >reading the messages on the flowers,
> >
> >where the ink smudges and blurs,
> >
> >as rain scratches at the cellophane
> >
> >and the hills loom through the greyness.
> >
> >
> >
> >Should I send some flowers?
> >
> >We weren't really friends.
> >
> >
> >
> >Beyond the crematorium, beside the one flat field
> >
> >in all those hills, is a battered pavilion
> >
> >with flapping tarred roof trailing fingers of rain from its eaves.
> >
> >  Draggled sheep nibble and drip at deep third man
> >
> >and the wind steals runs over the square.
> >
> >
> >
> >That day, one summer, long ago
> >
> >he was brother to the wind,
> >
> >his hair a shag of tangled sunlight
> >
> >as he swept the long boundary
> >
> >and took that blinder at deep square leg
> >
> >that won the match and the cup.
> >
> >Tumbling in laughter
> >
> >through the brilliance of the afternoon
> >
> >with the ball clutched jubilantly to his chest.
> >
> >How we all slapped his sweat run back,
> >
> >hugged him and shouted in each other's faces.
> >
> >
> >
> >  I think I will go, show my face,
> >
> >even though we weren't really friends
> 
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