John Mackay
A man of few words
Somebody who knew
the Oxford Concise
better than he did his own wife.
Who every morning buried his head
in the Times Quick,
a mere muscle-flex for the Cryptic.
Who could have filled a book
with his musing
on the fine line between winning and losing,
And when the mood took him
whisky-high,
poured out his heart to a roaring fire.
Who grafted night after night to teach
his wide-eyed son
the rudiments of Anglo-Saxon,
And for the more tortuous phrases,
had the skill
of breaking down, syllable by syllable.
Who spent his retirement years
confined in a room
with Einstein, discussing how to split the atom,
Until it finally seemed his story
would be heard,
but nobody stood to say a few words.
Page(s) 44
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