Letitia Anne Rhys
Last Days
He came every day
to look at
himself
lying in a cot.
He was a man of coal at fourteen,
in the strife of '26 he marched
for bread,
in the dark of '39 he marched
for freedom.
Nye was his hero,
his soul mate W.H. the poet.
Equality was his touchstone,
opportunity his gift
to you, his grandson.
He came every day
sometimes he wouldn't touch
but gaze like a King at Bethlehem's crib.
Life seeping from his six-foot frame,
his skin creeping pale under grey.
His hand fitting mine
like yesterday.
Everyday I watched
him
as he limped home
across the fields;
through the kissing gate,
down
towards the bridge,
along the stream
into the valley.
Page(s) 45-46
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