by Ken Colonsay
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Recent poems by Ken Colonsay
A Magical Autumn
Beach Master Bull
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Mary kept the house in order
but Jimmy had a free hand in the garden
growing flowers and vegetables year after year:
onions, leaks and potatoes
(Sharp’s Express and Kerr’s Pinks).
I’d go home on Sunday
with rhubarb, carrots, or tomatoes
that came to 'fruition' in the greenhouse.
Jimmy, my grandfather, would wave
a long goodbye at his gate.
At the weekend, when 'Talk-In Sunday' was on
he sat thoughtful in his chair
as callers aired their views.
Mary got impatient when Jimmy aired his.
They got in the way of the bowls,
the tennis, the football and the golf.
He liked a bottle of Old English sherry
and two cans of Tennent’s lager
when he watched the horse-racing on a Saturday.
I almost knocked him off his horse
when I introduced him to Pernod;
he drank the whole bottle
on top of his usual bevvy,
ending up in hospital
with a very sore stomach.
Years later, when his time had come,
I sat by the bed.
He was proud-looking, but dead.
I cried a bit, then left.