On a dark and cold November day,
In a city not so far away,
In 1968.
I stood at the foot of his hospital bed
And said
Nothing.
He lay there,
Eyes closed,
Grey hands on white bedsheets.
His throat criss crossed
With brown lines
Like barbequed steak.
The result of radiotherapy,
A guinea pig,
In a way.
I could not shed a tear,
I feared
I would never stop.
I turned and walked away,
I heard he died
Within a day.
I did not attend his funeral,
My love for him was far too deep
For me to keep control.
He was kind, and generous of heart,
I could find no reason
For him to leave so soon.
So, when my judgement day arrives,
And I stand before my maker,
It will be me doing the judging!
_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _
Owain Glyn
