The Fetler

Buffalo shoulders and thighs like oak trees,
head the size of a Halloween pumpkin -
candle flame flickering behind his eyes -
and teeth like a bandsaw.

He spoke no tongue but Yorkshire,
spat pity at anyone who lived
south of the Potteries.
“You have my condolences” he hissed.

Shop steward at the hospital
he fettled beds and fought the central heating,
mended trolleys, door hinges, broken washers,
until there was nothing left to fix

and so he bought a boat
a wireless, and a coastal chart.
Led by Radio 4 he reached the North Sea rigs
then back again to Scarborough.

He sold the boat and went all academic
learned Medieval Latin, grew himself a beard,
could translate every tombstone in the Minster,
shrugged when everybody thought him weird.

He was bored again.

A weekend  stroll would put him straight -
forty miles across the North York Moors -
and back in time for Monday.

Mountain Rescue never found the body,
just his boots

the laces neatly tied

11 thoughts on “The Fetler

  1. Pardon. But I gotta follow (for a bit anyway) to see what else you’re up to. Anyone looks in on Hobbo and Dauph can’t be all bad. It’s that or read back on your archives and that might raise eyebrows. Good read, Madam, good reads.


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