PROP FORWARD
Later, his big hand would trap him in an augur
And drag him to a death already stained
Into the soft lining of his muscled abdomen
But tonight he stood at the Union Bar and drained
A further pint, his hand wrapping it firmly.
Though he was seen in the gents a minute before
Sick as a dog from a long night's drinking,
Now, both feet planted square on the floor,
He measured his future farming in Devon
Against mine as a teacher; his father's land
Was tenanted, inherited by his elder brother
In time; the cut off, run down smallholding he'd planned
To buy was losing money, and had failed
To stir the homing instincts of his future wife.
We stood together, the farmer and the university boy,
From a vantage of drink and youth, looking out on life.
We'd won our rugby game that afternoon for Bideford
He'd propped, and I'd bound second row behind him.
Saturdays, for three rugby seasons, we'd clubbed
Together, matching each other's efforts, limb for limb.
Afternoons, we'd scrum the grass off the red Devon earth.
Late evenings, now and again, our voices sore
From song, we'd find a seam of harder matter;
And built a small friendship with a granite core.
Then, draining his fields, morphine slowed his deft hand.
Now Margaret and their two sons' quietly farm his land.
By David Curtis
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