For Glynn

I nursed you a short time and will respect my whole life.

Leukaemia slapped
one half of his face,
making it melt like a lolly
on a hot day. A palsy,
they called it. Like a stroke.
His speech slurring like treacle.
His thick grey hair gone
in a day, but he held on
to his humour – an iron grip
stronger than death.

His difficulties were jokes:
needing help to go the toilet,
the way his eye bulged -
horror movie face - dribbling
when he was eating, his limp
left hand once strong enough
to chop cow carcases. This man,
once a butcher, now a lump of meat;
manhandled by the nurses.
 
In private we cried for him.