I

He grew his hair and a beard
When I lost faith with my youth.
He kicked down fences
To show the vandals how it should be done
And smoked grass for the first time
As an octogenarian.
Just because.
He rode a tricycle to town and back
Everyday
When he reluctantly gave up his engines.
And he sat on benches
With WET PAINT signs
Still being written. Villagers aghast.
He used letters from King George
To mop up puddles of oil
Bled from the contraptions he made in his shed
Out of junk found in the wastelands
Spewed out by a dying Mersey.
And any wound could be healed
With pressure and spittle
Pressure and spittle
Pressure and spittle and patience
And he built kites for his Grandson
That didn’t fly.
There was blood on his bayonet
And he drove his wife mad
And he never believed in God.
He turned the concrete patio
Into a vegetable patch
And didn’t understand flowers at all.
He was as deaf as a house
And could do a hundred push-ups
As an octogenarian.
Just because.

II

Chew your food, she says,
He has forgotten again.
And his eyes are like swimming pools
Moss-empty and leaf-wet.

She misses him and that thought
Destroys her every time. After all,
There he is.
Bag of bones. Broken human being.

There will be no letters from the King this time
To soak you up, wring you
Back into the tin for later.
Slicked back hair. Grease the hinge.

And surely now her faith must waver?
But it never did.

Mr Anson, the photographer said,
No, he’s gone again.
And his mind is being pulled further away.
He doesn’t believe. So he ain’t coming.

Rupe, she says lovingly,
Placing a hand on his.
And in an instant like magic;
Eyes alive. Strength and love.

And the unwavering faith, for her,
Was repaid as a gift of moments with him.
And I found faith there too.
God is love, they say.
Maybe he believed after all.