Poetry
Gerrard Williams
For Mr. Jo There’s a bench in a sandy corner of Hampstead Heath, Where on occasion, to seek some relief Under the wide spreading arbour of the accompanying tree I sit, well we sit, Max and me. The tree - an oak – rustles away As through its leaves the London winds play And in canine company I lose myself in thought. My mood, is sombre, dark and unremitting As Max pants away, the two of us sitting Where many an owner and owned has sat before And looked at the butts on the concrete floor. The bench could tell stories, if not of wood Of other close friends. Of men who sat and scratched their dog’s ears Hoping that could some how, temporarily, still their fears. Sitting - but only just for a while – A cigarette’s time, one last wry smile. We stand to leave, and I turn to see An inscription. Who wrote it – not important – But wonderfully said, “For Mr Jo and his dogs, Dead, Gloriously dead. “ Who was this man? What brings him close to me? Just a bloke who loved his lads? And cleaned their coats and wiped their pads And sat beneath the same old tree Where we have sat, Max and me.
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