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The dipper, rocking on his bolder watch,

alert, in crowded camouflage, discreet,

magnetic hands at ten to two, scarf smoothed

with charm, the smile and words to reassure,

observed by none, a gesture, token, trove

to join the piling posts in fencing shed.

Grandfather’s own from Normandy,

the wallet slipped, worn-leather shine,

is soon binned skip, of no account,

what worth that life-held photo snap?

It sandwiched with paninis, wraps

pork chops and pȃté, jumbled food.

Surveying bins for easy trash,

amongst pre-packed day-before date,

she saw pigskin beneath the tripe,

patina pointing to her Dad -

before the crush about her life -

and needed it before the scraps.

Her whorled prints scraped the bacon fat,

and there the image, pipe in mouth,

for grandparent she never knew

became the pin-up she withdrew.

Between the paper sheets and card,

it tucked, her corrugated love.

Published by Sparks of Calliope, 31st October 2019

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