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,
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.
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.
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