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Poem	I had a father once, the records say. He has gone away down the long avenue Of death, on the hand-held minor no mist Of his breath, his firm signature no more. No more holding down his hat in the wind, Running to catch the last post, he has gone Beyond the wind-shaped stones on the high wall. His breath in that final coma came steady. Stertorous, the oxygen mask, the catheter, The telephone call summons and night train, The taxi over the moors, the charge nurse With little to say but kind words. I had a father once, the records say, Who carried me on the cross-bar of his bike Down Knostrop: we saw the white bells Of bindweed crawling with ants Strangle the rusty railings. My father, a quiet man, never knew what To say, which is why he was taken And I was not told and the records say It was pneumonia that took him And I was not told why the anti-biotics Were not given.
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