A POOL OF DARK IN HIS HANDS

The shadows he’d seen

did not darken the days

that he'd 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 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 their beds.

To snap that book shut

and live in light

took: the grace of a poet’s pen,

real ale, red wine

and a lifetime of true love.