A POOL OF DARK IN HIS HANDS

The shadows that he’d seen

didn’t darken the years

that he helped with our wellies,

lifted us up over dykes and stiles

and carried doll's prams and bikes

when we got tired.

It was light from the stars that led him

along frost-bitten country lanes

towards the docks and factories

where he worked

to keep the wolf from the door

and dinner in the pot.

But there were shadows.

We knew that.

We learnt of chains and blackened streets,

a pointing board outlined in red

and shuddered as our chanting

brought the Bright Toothed Beelers

from the woods.

To snap that book tight shut

and live in light

took:

the grace of a poet’s pen,

real ale,

red wine

and a lifetime of true love.