Mr. Shopland (insurance man)

visited once a month in specs and a trilby,

scuffed ledger to hand,

chipper, breezily discussing the weather,

fair or foul,

his bike propped beside him

a Hercules with Miller dynamo.

 

Stood in our porch to collect insurance.

 

This ritual grew with me as a child;

the peremptory knock,

an inward gush of air,

red tiled porch as welcome,

my mother making small talk,

me making notes as small boys do.

 

On his bike a wooden box,

spare elastic bands,

a simple clasp,

cash always carried then.

 

Underneath his cycle clips

sturdy legs, he was not to be messed with.

Someone tried,

but during active service he had proved himself

a force to be reckoned with,

and blood was raised on the attempt.

 

When my father passed away

we saw the insurance agreement

in his deed box since the thirties:

one penny per week in perpetuity.

It was sad to have to submit it then

with its copperplate scrolled heading

stiffened with age,

proclaiming a lifetime opportunity.