Innings Closed
The candle flickers and is gone:
the self-same flame that lit
your way to learning though those young nights.
A gentle breeze took your spirit in the end.
Books the beacon of your life,
no shoddy thought; all set and placed
by modesty and quiet passion.
Such measure, such weight,
such sure, steady power.
Here, at your desk, the brilliance of your mind
hovers still, softly wreathed.
Here the unusual emblems:
newspapers cuttings, careful accounts, cricket scorecards.
You spliced through life with a gardener’s love,
turning spits slowly,
spade-solemn in the autumn sun,
before you stopped, went in and were gone.
Households of happiness are due to you:
legions of young men you cradled,
took aside and showered with antique grace.
listen still to the chalk hours,
the creaking desks and pages turning towards knowledge.
Those shafts of light are shining now
through family windows,
children scuttling off to school,
grabbing hats in the wind –
the influence of style goes down the years.
Now, father, give me your grace and power
that I may start something new –
in memory of you.