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I, too, have trailed my father's spirit
From the mud-walled cabin behind the mountain
Where he was born and bred,
TB and scarletina, 

The farm where he was first hired out,
To Wigan, to Crewe junction,
A building-site from which he disappeared
And took passage, almost, for Argentina. 

The mountain is coming down with hazel,
The building-site a slum,
While he has gone no further than Brazil. 

That's him on the verandah, drinking rum
With a man who might be a Nazi,
His children asleep under their mosquito-nets. 


Anonymous submission.

Added: 24 Feb 2003 | Last Read: 30 Aug 2008 4:07 PM | Viewed: 2409 times

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