“So What’s going on Grandpa?” I asked you when I was five. As we strolled down Bell Lane Questioning the meaning of life. Grandpa paused in response Then said he wasn’t sure, Which did not do justice To the life he had in store. You were born a left hander like me, But forced you to switch to right, You didn’t like this but couldn’t go back Although you tried with all your might. You’re A supporter of the Lib Dems, As well as a lover of a quiz, You bragged that you waved to King George 5th, Unfortunately none of us know who he is. On the week of my 13th birthday, We dined at the Traditional Plaice, You poured me 6 glasses of white wine, Until I was completely off my face. Fast forward to the results of my GCSES, Which had me sleepless for days, I rang you to announce the good news, You noted “just 3 ordinary As”. A strong attender of Sussex Cricket club, Whilst enjoying a Harvey’s beer, Commenting loudly about the crowd That there are “a lot of big bellies round here”. You enjoyed the sport on television, A big fan of tennis too, You taught us to hate the Tories, Despite Waverley remaining blue. Lets discuss when I last saw you, On Boxing Day Last year, Within Grandma’s box of tricks, You claimed one item was quite dear. And due to the cost of living crisis, We guessed til the bitter end, Joe scoured the contents on ebay. Then you revealed it was all pretend. So I think this is just a snippet, Of the legend that you are. You stayed loyal to your authentic self, A quality that goes so far. So what’s going on Grandpa? It’s to live a life that you deemed true, A wife, 3 kids, 7 grandchildren, That hold an endless love for you.

Just a bit of background for those not steeped in Sussex cricket: Alan Ross was the cricket correspondent for the Observer and life-long Sussex man like my father. This poem was written after watching the great Sussex and England wicket-keeper Jim Parks score 188 against Kent in 1951. It triggered thoughts and memories of Jim’s father who also played for England. My aunt, Vanessa, actually remembers Jim buying a cornet from her a bit later in the 50s when she was a Walls ice-cream girl at Eastbourne cricket ground. J. M. PARKS AT TUNBRIDGE WELLS by Alan Ross Parks takes ten off two successive balls from Wright, A cut to the rhododendrons and a hook for six. And memory begins suddenly to play its tricks: I see his father batting, as, if here, he might. Now Tunbridge Wells, 1951; the hair far lighter, And body boyish, flesh strung across thin bone, And arms sinewy as the wrists are thrown At the spinning ball, the stance much straighter. Now it is June full of heaped petals, The day steamy, tropical; rain glistens On the pavilion, shining on corrugated metal, The closeness has an air that listens. Then it was Eastbourne, 1935; a date Phrased like a vintage, sea-fret on the windscreen. And Parks, rubicund and squat, busily sedate, Pushing Verity square, moving his score to nineteen.  Images of Then, so neatly parcelled and tied By ribbons of war - but now through a chance Resemblance re-opened; a son's stance At the wicket opens the closed years wide. And it is no good resisting the interior Assessment, the fusion of memory and hope That comes flooding to impose on inferior Attainment - yesterday, today, twisted like a rope. Parks drives Wright under dripping green trees, The images compare and a father waves away Applause, pale sea like a rug over the knees, Covering him, the son burying his day With charmed strokes. And abstractedly watching, Drowning, I struggle to shake off the Past Whose arms clasp like a mother, catching Up with me, summer at half-mast. The silent inquisitors subside. The crowd, Curiously unreal in this regency spa, clap, A confectionery line under bushes heavily bowed In the damp. Then Parks pierces Wright's leg-trap. And we come through, back to the present. Sussex 300 for 2. Moss roses on the hill. A dry taste in the mouth, but the moment Sufficient, being what we are, ourselves still.