In Memoriam: E.E.I.
I must have been just eight – it was 1953 –
When in some parlour of my mind he pulled a chair out
Like a book from a packed shelf, then sat down and got going.
Fifty-eight years have passed and he hasn’t finished talking
Nor I listening. My father was already dead,
My mother’s now been dead for thirty years. Who else
Have I got to know like him, learnt more from, loved more freely?