Butterscotch

This is written in memory of my granddad James William "Bill" Hooper (1908-2002)

Butterscotch

He rarely ventures from the house,
the narrow terrace, tucked away
in the back streets of his familiar
town. Just to the shops, lamb chops
or a few shillings each way bets.

Dressed for the occasion
- suit, tie and trilby -
on a pilgrimage, one man
among the thronging chatter,
no champagne lunch for him
in the warmth of the grandstand.

Fingers calloused from fifty
years labour at the pit. Surface work,
didn't pay so well but not in the
hole that crushed his brother.
Tracing the names on the card,
searching for the right one.

It's not the money, it's the thrill
of the race, the win. It was never
worth the risk when money was
so hard earned.

This has been his day, his escape.

Back to the train,
boxes of butterscotch in a bag
for the nippers. Perhaps with more
coins and notes than he came with,
perhaps not.

He enters the silent house,
banks the fire
and settles into the settee.
He closes his eyes and dreams
of thundering hooves,
flashing colours splattered with mud,
straining muscles,
wild eyes
and feels
the rising
exhilaration.

Tim Fellows 2019