My Grandpa’s Pocket Knife
It lies here now before me, A whalebone pocket knife, Still sharp enough to shave with, A cipher of his life. The faded stamp of ‘Sheffield’, And, ground to faintness: ‘Steel’, Good scrimshaw on the handle, A perfect heft and feel. It speaks to me of Empire, Which I was taught to curse, Yet who would care to argue That there are things far worse... No matter. My old grandpa Long, long since left this life; He served the Royal Navy, And this here— is his knife.
Dorsington, Warwickshire June 22, 2005
This poem is a work in progress. It is incomplete, unfinished and has not been revised. It is meant only to offer a glimpse into the notebook of a poet at work. Please do not post it onto other sites or publish it in any form. Thank you — Felix Dennis