Today I have been holding the hand of the model maker.

With my brush I attempt to make good -

as they say.

 

He died soon after he finished

a wonderful re-incarnation

of our lost harbour.

He made it as light relief while working on

some effigy of violence.

That was his real job.

 

I like to think of him

losing himself in the past

avoiding nuclear warheads

and cancer.

 

I’ve seen the photographs.

There he is, working.

Behind him the Laura Ashley curtains.

The model vast

up against a double bed.

 

He is a handsome man.

 

The kind of man I like –

troubled.

 

And here I am

ham-fisted

glueing boats

and touching up

the sand.

 

He reaches out to me

and tentatively

I touch his hand . . . .