This poem started in a session of poets writing together, with Michael Laskey and Dean Parkin. Dean produced a ‘Spot the Ball’ page from an old newspaper, and we all enjoyed marking our X. We all missed!
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Do you remember ‘Spot the Ball’?
Put your cross on the photo,
if it marks the hidden football
you win a prize. I never won.
I am still looking for the hidden.
‘Spot the Hat’ and find my father.
A softly stained grey trilby,
a Jay’s feather in the sweatband.
I watched it nod at auctions
angle adjusted with a nudge
or tipped back in satisfaction,
glimpsed it through bar smoke,
saw it behind the windscreen
of his old round-nosed blue truck.
When the door bell rang , on went the hat,
if it was business , he was ready
or the hasty excuse “ Just off out”.
Spot the hat, it did not lift for gentry,
but moved amongst all with ease.
Spot the hat, it should have covered his face
that last tautly drawn grey absence.
The search ended then, but there were
prizes for none on that hospital bed.
