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
terriblefearofcheese.com 
Strangely, I’m happy about all this. Love the whimsy and the feel.
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Glad you liked it. Thanks
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Of course!
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If you’d rather I didn’t share it, let me know.
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Go ahead
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Go ahead I would be honoured
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Thank you.
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I love this, Chel; I’m giving it another read; a masterclass in how to write a portrait poem —
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Thanks. You’ve made my day.
Best
ian
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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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