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You lived your life, as you wished.

Then all four boys grew up and left.

One by one they drifted apart.

More room for lawn bowls and golf

to grow in your heart.

But absence must have hurt,

sometimes?

All those unopened bottles of Baileys

and Christmas wine,

longing for a woman’s touch.

You wore stone to bury your first

born, following his feather-weight

coffin in silent resignation.

          Cancer.

Did you think you had more time

to repair the house,

change your handwritten will?

 Death creeps up on us all.

And what was with the golf bags,

broken kettles, stacks of duvets,

boxed china plates

stashed away in bedroom cupboards?

How well you hid your chaos.

Like a mute swan swimming against the tide.


Carter Brooksby, Granddad (Keith) and me

A Quiet Man

Snow! In April, hail as well.

How this would have

unsettled your under used

nerves; adding to Covid and the

golf course being closed.

Those last hours in the Home;

staring at the ceiling, climbing

the walls. Searching for

each illusive breath, to keep

tallying up the score.

Did you dream of jumping, those

impossibly high hedges with your

favourite drivers and wedges?

Just one last hole before you

shuffled off this earth.

For Keith Brooksby, who passed away Easter Sunday, 2021