COLOSSUS, FALLEN

–       For Lawrence Edward Price, Dad.

You were somebody.

Younger then and slim

hair now cropped and grey

waving chestnut to the collar

of the white Italian suit that

          on race days

replaced your railway-driver’s green.

Wide-eyed I’d watch you walk

          the grandstand—your manor

while faces I knew from television

called your name

waved or shook your hand

waited on your words—

precise choreography of

verbal momentum

timed like a cavalry charge—

pouring from the call-box

herding the horses around the

track

flooding out to fill

a thousand country

pubs and TABs.

Saturdays, delivered

in Sunday clothes

through the turnstile from

Mum’s world to yours

I crossed a crumpled wasteland

of discarded betting-slip dreams

and met you at the bar.