Ron Copyright © Sally Warrell 8 May 2011

Your smile breaking like champagne,
Blue eyes dancing behind frames;
You owned your grand six feet.

I would kiss your flat cheek;
Smelling sometimes of cigars,
More often clean and sharp.

You liked to watch the racing
And the football and to say
“Come on England!” all the time;
Shout out loud at pantomimes
And flirt with waitresses.

When long before I came
You drove a motorbike,
Nana in the sidecar;
You dived into the cold
To pluck plates from the floor
Of the town swimming pool.

You had, your friends told me,
“An excellent speaking voice”,
Loud, low and resonant.
“Tell us the story of your life” You’d say, and “Well I go to sea!”

Yet a person so public
Couldn’t be more private
No one knew what you
Were thinking, saying mmn! Behind the newspaper
When Nana’s tongue ran wild.

“Don’t go in for old age,
Sally”, you said sadly,
The year before you died.
I said, “I won’t; not me.”