Opposed
Uncle Ron, now ninety odd,
saw service in the big shebang,
weathered open heart surgery,
golfs without a motor buggy.
I'd still rather not be on the wrong
end of his flattened fist.
Something incalculable lurks
behind those genial eyes.
Staying with him and Aunty Dawn
years ago, I got off work early;
bunged on a bit of Rock 'n Roll
Reed, loudish, in the afternoon.
How was I to know that Ron too
would knock off early that day?
Strode in, wrenched up the stylus,
snapped power off at the wall.
Took his leave. Never said a word,
then or afterwards. Maybe his eyes
blazed. I certainly didn't meet them.
Some seeing doesn't take looking.
Barracks for the Tiges, Uncle Ron,
always has. Saturdays, we used
to watch footy replays together
on his black and white tele.
Even in Melbourne mud, playing
the Bombers, both teams in
black jerseys with pale slanted
slashes, he knew who was what.
Bill Wootton
25.2.13
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