Tuesday 14th June 2011, A. Palmer
I studied you, silent sage,-
out of the corner of an eye,
as I perched on that day’s flower
like only an eight-year-old can,
whilst a hill of crumpled drawings
I’d overshot the lines in sprouted
like a stem in fast-forward nearby.
I observed impressed how your brow
rooted and raked for the solution,
the lines like spades, digging
and tossing the problems
over for clues.
Occasionally, your pen
would rest between your reticent lips
like a fork emflowerbedded for a tea break.
just before you left for a locum,
your wilted fingers would
plough your morning thorns,
dusting the soil from the answer, and you
would unearth the nine-letter word with nominal fuss.
That day, it was “grandsire”.