Grandfathers - Oapa

Oapa - grandfather

Grandfathers wear hats, different kinds of hats,

many, of nations and teams, and rank and file

and class and table and I think of one of mine,

Oapa, always sitting at the head of, in an office, 

on the road, in his castle, by the rooftop turrets 
in The Blitz; tin hat, radio, siren, waiting

and listening out for the engines, the bombs to hit,

the sound of his erstwhile countrymen, or back

interned, sitting and listening in a hut on the Isle 

of Man for the next boat coming in. Waiting

and listening, back to the songs of Berlin

turning to goosesteps, turning to

ashes of musical score, books and birds

on a wire, war; his Morse code crystal nights

stargazing, waiting and listening for just a word.

Top hat, tails, marriages, contracts – in the level-headed

whisper of baldness and sunspots, stories in hats,

cellars full of suitcases, in ledgers and transactions,

stories there, wanting that we should live.



Robin's earstwhile, poem
Oapa-