Room Eight's the Geordie

A knob of coal and some photos
in a beat-up biscuit tin; the sole
remnants of his past. Long ago
he had designs to be a teacher,
but at just fifteen, sent down
the pit to earn his keep. “Ideas
above his station,” they said.
Easington, born and bred;
mining – in his blood, until
the industry’s demise. The end
of an era, but life went on.

So, he’d moved down south,
took a job at Vauxhalls –
made the best of what he had;
Newcastle Brown, his fags.
Now, at almost eighty-five,
the thought of death
didn’t faze him – staunch
believer, as he was...Except
when it came to the crunch,
prayed that old Saint Peter
would let him in without a fuss.

No kin left to speak of;
an independent sort of chap,
so a bitter pill to swallow,
put to pasture in a rest-home.
Precious belongings left behind;
to uneducated eyes – detritus,
dumped and left to rot
on some downtown tidy-tip.
And for what? To stand in line
for Zimmer-frames, hearing aids,
plastic hips, and Alzheimer’s.

One morning, after breakfast,
he set off on his customary
stroll down by the river...Where
they found him late that night;
a massive heart attack, they said.
He’d seemed fine as we’d chatted
by the gate – him just going out,
and me coming in, as a sudden
gust of wind blew it open –
slamming shut, behind him,
as he waved.