T F Griffin
For Tony Earnshaw
Leeds was your home and haunt;
Standing in The Fenton,
Pint of mild
Next to strong forearm,
Your mountainous quiet
Contained the eagerness of a lifetime’s thought:
After thirty years as factory hand,
Lathe turner, crane driver,
You stood there, unacknowledged legislator
Of Northern Surrealism;
An afflated now
For dead days;
Listening close, your ears
Sprouting endearing hairs,
You told why to shut a gate on a large
garden
Was to keep the wind out,
And how your boxes with bees
And found combs
Glassed in a gallery
Were a measure of all our lives.
This is for you Earnshaw,
Loyal friend, artist, poet.
Let the rule-makers and undriven
Who hate the drinkers of mild
Smirk behind the glass
Of their unrecorded greed.
Page(s) 83
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