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BLACK HILLS

Looking through old photographs
But nothing came to mind, I’m locked in
A stalemate a pawn without a crown.
I remembered something my father said
‘put your hand into a flame and burn
Away the burn’.  I tried to burn the photo-
Graphs to burn memory back in
and take the sadness from my eyes.

I must find a lift to make these days right
Even the beautiful game isn’t beautiful
Anymore, can you imagine me playing
In a wheelchair, I can’t even keep it up. 

The stroke has reached down into my very core
a place where these words want to come from
they are my only hope, ‘My bright shillings of march’.
Way, way up there on those black hills where

My father lies.

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