Taid

Poem By Richard George

Awake hours before Mum and Dad,
I'd tip-toe down to see him:
Early riser, old man.
I sat in his snug, watching his hands,
Sculpture-veined, roll Rizlas
And make me tea I winced to drink,
Rusty with tannin.
He would talk. I would nod.

I am like him now; Puck in the eyes,
Strands of specialist knowledge
At my fingers, hook and claw
And the booze - the booze, dark gold,
Hot in our veins, all right with the world.
But Taid died at eighty,
With not an enemy, anywhere:
This will be the difference.

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