|He held a great affection for Trusham and was inspired to write these lines:
In this blown house my grandfather was born
And here his father first unshook his bones.
Walking the churchyard as a child, I saw
My slate name on their double page of stones.
The War memorial - a lump of rock,
Upended rollers, lengths of iron twine.
Crests like a coaster the hills wave. I read
The bullet - coloured names. My father's. Mine.
In Rattle Street the mud is Flanders-thick,
An old man, shoulder-sacked against the rain
Under the dropping fingers of a rick
Asks, "What is it that brings you here again?
"You never married, and you've got no child
(I don't know what you dad would say to that.)
And you the only one. It seems to me
That when you've gone, the name will just go scat."
How can I tell him that the sounding heart -
Oiled with the same old blood - can't be rest?
Useless to say that this particular flesh
Won't scrape off, dry off, like the mud, the wet.
Beyond those pale disturbances of sky
Another year assembles its vast floe.
Ice line the turning air. It softens. Soon
Advances from the west the carrion snow.