after life

A father, born in 1908,

might contemplate the carefully arranged, 

placed before him every day, 

on the table a mother cared to display

her best attempts 

to erase the trials of his day,

and look at the sight, dismayed;

cautious lest any evidence 

of how bereft he felt, 

and how he craved a slice of a life,

now late, 

which still had flavour on a plate

in his childish memory;

of when the beef were cows he’d loved,

roaming windswept Shropshire crofts,

where Horseradish re-seeds,

always already and annually;

worried he

might betray his case,

could utter up a prayer instead, 

as proof, 

in a form of Grace. 

‘We thank you for the food we eat. We’ve really got it wrong. We really should have listened Lord, all the way along. Now we’ve got this factory farmed, miserable tasteless life, I really would appreciate your not telling the wife’ 


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