Robertson's
The heat haze from the fire
was joining that of the sweltering day
as the man added another item to the fire
from his late father's detritus.
Stuff left over
that even the Charity shops had rejected.
He opened an old cigar box
and there they lay
a hundred paper gollies
collected from the marmalade his father ate;
the only thing, and brand,
Robertson's,
he ever took for breakfast.
A gust of wind
suddenly caught the paper tokens
carrying them high in the air
dispersing them far afield.
The man thought
it was enough his neighbors would be
complaining about the smoke.
Now, there will be little mementos
of bygone attitudes
landing
in their flower beds,
on their conservatory windows,
floating in their ornamental ponds.
He looked down at his daughter
one had landed, stuck to her dew sweat arm.
A tennis player wielding a racket
his black smiling face
a Grand Slam winner!
She looked at it, and her father
with equal disdain
tore off the golly
turned her back
walked away
to wait with her mother
in the air-conditioned car.
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