Super poem, Bob - havent seen one from you for a while.
Sometimes I think your poems are too short,or fragmented - but not this one.
bw
SallyE
>
> 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
> whose now thin fingers you can hardly believe
> yanked out a dead lamb, whose 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.
>
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