04-26-2015, 01:30 PM
Uncle Ernest
My mother, stroking
the dog's silky ears
as she told me.
That's all I remember
about Uncle Ernest,
apart from his ghost,
sitting cloth-capped,
and grim-faced
on his front step;
the way he smiled,
when he carved birds
out of bits of wood
in his garden shed,
and a newspaper clipping
about how they'd found him,
wandering on the Yorkshire Moors.
He'd drunk weed killer,
after posting letters
saying sorry.
"Tangled web", the paper said.
Something about gambling
and money for the holiday.
My mother, stroking
the dog's silky ears
as she told me.
That's all I remember
about Uncle Ernest,
apart from his ghost,
sitting cloth-capped,
and grim-faced
on his front step;
the way he smiled,
when he carved birds
out of bits of wood
in his garden shed,
and a newspaper clipping
about how they'd found him,
wandering on the Yorkshire Moors.
He'd drunk weed killer,
after posting letters
saying sorry.
"Tangled web", the paper said.
Something about gambling
and money for the holiday.
