This poem is taken from Stand 216, 15(4) December 2017 - February 2018.

Ben Bransfield Two Poems
Uncle David, it was you
 
at Southport Pleasureland,  
the apple of the Caterpillar ride
behind your grey puffer jacket.

I was no longer six or seven  
but it was still you, tiptoeing,
beaming at the Big Dipper,  
screamers who would survive.

You, about to take my hand,  
and carry the fish I had won  
with your help for a short while.

 

Gran
 
I found a photo of her standing once
walking the German Shepherd

in a deep 80s snow, her mittened hands
not yet the clam fists that I knew.

Spectator near blind and never for play,
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