Saturday, 5 February 2011

dear Bloggers

This last week has been memorable - out of the blue i met two old work mates, We were part of a team of gravediggers and exhumers in the middle to late sixties. There were originally eight of us. Yes, it was an odd, but wonderful job to be involved in; and i suppose all of us were in some strange way outcast. In the eight there were a couple of bare-knuckle fighters, an Al Jolson impersonator who used to take to the stage two maybe three times a week. There was a dark haired six foot five giant with a short fused temper. A four foot six strong man who was nearly as broad as tall, who used to drink his weight in beer nearly every night and then he'd be as fresh as a daisy the next day while digging nine foot deep graves. There was one who had the hair and a slight look of Ginger Baker from the Cream pop group, there was me: the baby of the lot, epileptic with touches of autism such as dyspraxia. It was a wonderfully, sometimes hilariously funny job - some times sad...


For Jenny

I piss on my hands

To ease burning

From blisters and from frost,

Steam in a warm few seconds

dies of cold.

I’m tunneling underneath

A family headstone,


Cubes of oil-black clay

Onto the wooden staging as

Black beetle funeral cars creep in

Between angels standing either side

Of cast iron gates;

I take from Jenny her baby

And slot him under

A list of names

Into Dearly Beloved Grandfather’s arms

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