‘Churchill dead’ the paper said,
as the fork, meat and two veg,
hovered between the page and his mouth.
Leaning forward, breath-mouthing the words
the fork delivers and the news is chewed.
Similarly, the cup hovers at the lip sip
until such time.
See now the grime
of the day’s toil in the lines of his brow
as the frowning news folds down, and his
dawn-dragged day, to his sundown night,
flickers in the coal fire glow to the one side,
and the stair-draught curtained on the right.
Not yet the bowl to wash before a pint, but
a droop-eyed snooze as the news is mute,
as a child-eyed mimicry fast follow suit.