DAVID


He was a big working Englishman
his barrel chest could crush the breath from you,
tho being English he never did.
He'd turned more Ford motors out
than you and I have ever driven,
or ever will.
Off to the local 'club' to pos-a-let-her (post a letter: excuse for a beer)
of a Sunday afternoon;
a deep "Ain't she sweet" is whispered
clear to Jane, as endearing as
a mum's embrace.

Life seemed full within him
the month we both lived there
in the shadow of their generous grace.
That's why it was so hard
to see him weak and thin
the gleam gone from his softened eyes
and thirst for beer and company
diminished by his not-real
self now mild.
And that's why it was
that from Jane, who seldom cries,
a flood of tears burst forth
the night he died.

gf 86