Four generations of my family were by chance involved with an enterprise launched in the 1880’s by another family, The Goughs. Perhaps I own the only artefact from that history.
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The marker for a ninety-nine year dream
in the palm, where it always should be.
Ink encrusted letters mirror his name
and the promised perpetuity of sons
elliptically it encircles a sad definition –
my hard-won, now useless, empiric knowledge.
Symbolically it cradles my birth town
and a king’s mythological burial.
Partial memories beyond the words
Random connections that link lives
my father bought Gough’s guilty gun
his grandfather built the death scene.
By chance I soaked the seeds for years
drawing germination out of dormancy.
Water, wind and heat – controlled by touch
modifying cereals, until the final piece was fired.
Demolishing the malt house walls took years
each brick unpicked by hand, finally nullifying
the turned wood, Perspex and moulded rubber
of the entrepreneurs silent stamp.
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