the weekly poem.com

Since 1961

I'm eight. My mother waits in line with me
to see The Bulldog Breed.

My father's been in the navy, and also
has owned a bull mastiff: maybe

I'll find out about waves and dogs
with the pin-thin Kia-Ora straw

lodged in my gob. The credits roll
through the soft swirl of tobacco smoke,

drifting towards the rococo ceiling:
behind us the usherettes hush.

******* *

The clumsy child forever knocks away
the family china. He runs

from his mum's retort towards
imaginary cliffs, as gormless as Norman:

he is me, although the route
to a rocket isn't through the ranks.

Imagine being a nonagenarian
and still a prankster -

impossible. The audience applauds
its imaginary hands. I'm eight,

I go home happy, my head tumbling
with skids and scrapes,

ready to be old. There's no catcall
for a perfect pratfall.

Click here for Norman Wisdom's obituary in The Guardian.

Read Bill's 'Bill Posters' blog by clicking here

Since 1961
Norman Wisdom died, aged 95.
7th October 2010

POETRY KIT WEBRING

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