“’Ere y’are then, ’ere’s one for yer.” Silver hair
combed back, a grizzled beard, he’s sitting up
at the table, not in the easy chair,
his tools to hand: a biro, coffee cup,
the Telegraph and, by the lamp, that old
remembered dictionary. “Yeah, go on then.
How many letters? What’s the clue?” I fold
my magazine, find paper, scrounge a pen.
Well here’s one for you Dad, my old mate.
Two down, four letters. Noble sentiment:
no money on a day to celebrate
the end of conflict on the continent.
You’ll soon get it. Easy for you, I know.
But then you’ll have to speak the word I owe.
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