Time had beached him like a stranded whale
on the bleak shores of a big brass bed. The past
sang to him: the sea in a shell. I
was his lookout at the window of the upstairs
room. He’d cup his hand round his ear
when I’d call out to him how many cows
Stinson was grazing on the long acre now.
I’d listen to news of a world he knew
long before I knew there was a world to know.
And so it would go on, with him left
high and dry and out of his element by the tide
and me all eyes for the eyes that always
seemed to be looking beyond me
at things I’d never be able to see.
P.S. I didn’t have anything to add to the news of the BSkyB bid apart from a *fist pump* and *high five*! So I gave you this aptly named poem instead, from the new anthology Being Human (all of Neil Astley’s anthologies are just… I can’t describe them… read them).