We've come to the churchyard,
planted flowers on your grave,
now make our way to Orford Quay

where every day, even when gales
blew off the North Sea,
you used to journey

bent almost at right angles to your stick,
stiff, aching, shrapnel still in your back
you'd sink onto a bench

with Mick, your companion,
beside you on a loose leash,
too old to pull the way he once did.

In this shelter
we discover your form,
hold you there.

Rosy Wilson