Remember pitching our old ‘A’ frame tent?
Set just one line wrong, end up wet all night.
The pegs were mis-matched, half the poles were bent.
It took us hours to get the canvas tight.
You’d let me light the lamp, you’d start a fire,
burn sausages and give me sips of beer,
then tell me ghostly tales ‘til we grew tired.
“I’m frightened Dad.” “Don’t worry Son, I’m here.”
They put you in a tent with plastic sides
to hold in oxygen, so you could breathe.
I came and sat with you those last few nights,
knowing the time was close for you to leave.
You spoke, I leaned inside the tent to hear;
“I’m frightened Son.” “Don’t worry Dad, I’m here.”
John has spent forty years sitting behind a desk tapping at the keys of a computer for ten hours a day and writing about Investment Banking. Freed from the yoke of the capitalist oppressor he now sits behind a desk for five hours a day and writes about whatever he likes. Then he goes and walks the dog.