I know these things today.
They take years to heal,
to unravel.
Most afflictions,
are a ticking clock.
As a child,
in the beginning,
he was my hero.
He could make me laugh,
to a dizziness,
with a silly face.
And then wonder,
at the grace,
of racehorses,
and George Best.
When I was a young man.
I despised him,
like Thatcher.
He hurt us all,
with words,
discouragement,
then power.
But in these hours,
I need to love him again.
So we can talk,
of Cormac McCarthy,
Wayne Rooney.
The fear of dying.
The remains of the day,
are not for wasting son.
