Mr Wheeldon

You'd see his flat-cap bobbing roadside of the field,
Pulled along by a yapping dog. Hear him tell strangers,
'He wunner bite ya.'

Once the farmer - now a wishbone wearing tweed.
He'd lived, herded sheep, barn-danced, fought a war;
Everyone and no-one knew him.

One day he stopped to look at our GameBoy Colors -
Real bobby dazzlers compared to what he'd had -
And whistling, shuffled back to his bungalow.

Home from university, I come across his grave.
Alf, 98. His wife went the year I was born.