…is the first book of poetry I owned –
a breast pocket sized hardback, slightly foxing.
It was my father’s: his name neatly
in capitals on the inside cover
in indelible pencil – a Londoner,
the son of immigrants. When I was ten
my mother gave it me. I liked the first line
‘From Clee to heaven the beacon burns’,
imagining it set to music.
Following his death on active service, the book
was sent back with all his other things.