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374th Weekly Poetry Contest honorable mention: Last requests

by Fliss

He greets me with his usual half-salute
as I approach the summit of the hill.
It's winter, but he's in a linen suit,
the sort he wore before becoming ill

and less inclined to leave the bungalow
he used to share with Wynn until her death
one hazy day in June. He smiles. "Hello!"
I call, "Hi Grandad!", slightly out of breath

from climbing and from carrying the things
he asked for while in hospital: a bowl
of ice cream and his dressing gown, with strings
for decency. We sit and watch a foal

gambolling with her mother, roan and spry;
up here we needn't think about the ward.
I love the grassy slopes and shifting sky.
Up here, we must be closer to the Lord

or what it is that brings us to this place
so I can grant his last requests again
and see the happiness upon his face
as he surveys the homeland, fern and fen.

374th Weekly Poetry Contest