Enjoyed this very much Bob. Don't know the mans work, though I know I
should, but the piece paints an excellent picture.
Cheers and thanks,
Frank
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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