Here in this quiet house all sleep,
And I give time to memory,
Hang a sepia photo on a wall,
Pull sketches on brown paper
From a drawer. What use? some say,
Never look over your shoulder
There are dangers in nostalgia.
Yet I resurrect the face
Of this man of no account
To anyone now but me.
Uncle Bert loved all he did,
Was always good to be with.
He had large mechanic's hands,
Strong, though his feet were bad,
What with carrying a man's load
At sixteen in that factory
(His Ma gave that foreman
A large piece of her mind).
And he marched too far in the war
Before they made him a driver.
After demob he kept a post office,
Mended ploughs, drove country tourists,
Saved a bus-load when the brakes failed,
You should get a medal, they said.
He ran a guest house, lost his money,
Lost a leg, and then the other.
His garden overran, yet he never
Lost the art of being happy.
Bought paper, brush and oil to copy
Constable's green fields and streams.
Constable was the Daddy of them all! he said.
I search the youthful portrait,
The cheeks still holding teeth,
Trim moustache, brown hair, blue eyes,
For the warmth of this simple man,
Surprised by simple things, smiling,
Laughing, sometimes strangely anxious -
Sunsets can make you blind, he claimed.
To the end I see him smiling still,
Fearing each week would be his last.
Earlier he bored us somewhat
With schemes to how of win the pools.
That was when he had a little
Money to spare. Later, no pools, no beer,
Only the forbidden cigarette,
An occasional trip in the old Humber,
On its last legs (but he kept it going
Till he lost his own). The surgeon said:
We'll have that off, laughed Uncle Bert,
And he waved his absent foot.
For him whatever happened
Was a source of fascination.
But nothing is left of Uncle Bert
Except two paintings on brown paper,
A sepia portrait on a wall,
And these images in my head
Of their simple, genial maker.
They keep their warmth although,
For me, but not for him,
They are decked in Constable's snow.
©Terry Hodgson2024
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