Charles Boyle
My Teacher
My Sunday school teacher, more regular than I,
told tales of the Apostles: if he called you,
would you go? The voice went hoarse, his words
alone remained; whole nights I never slept, got drunk
on Rimbaud and his Abyssinian wine . . .
Well-read, respected by my father, it’s said
he fought in Spain; but that was in another land,
and after Stalin, there are no causes left.
He died in Croydon, not distant from myself,
he left no children but a shelf of books.
Learning too late, you learn the question’s
never asked — that boat, its sails already small,
we watch far longer than the watched looks back.
Page(s) 27
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