He was a lovely man.

A well-trimmed white moustache

and wrinkled weatherbeaten face,

but laughlines around bright brown eyes.

Hands so gnarled and earthcracked

but true gardener's hands, capable of miracles.

 

His home was warm but dark inside

because the sparse sunlight was not wasted

but used to grow tomatoes on the windowsills,

and his strawberries were greatly envied.

A happy bachelor - 'nae strangers in the hoose'.

 

He had a velvety grey moggy,

and two hens, one white, one black

to guarantee his breakfast egg.

No summertime for him -

'It's nae God's time'.

 

He rode uphill to work on an ancient

creaking, paintless bicycle,

with clips tied round his corduroys.

A moleskin waistcoat for Sunday church,

the emblem of his profession.

 

He was a lovely man,

may he rest forever in a moleless garden.