On A Portrait Of A Deaf Man

The kind old face, the egg-shaped head,

The tie, discretely loud,

The loosely fitting shooting clothes,

A closely fitting shroud.

He liked old city dining rooms,

Potatoes in their skin,

But now his mouth is wide to

The London clay come in.

He took me on long silent

In country lanes when young.

He knew the names of ev'ry

But not the song it sung.

And when he could not hear me

He smiled and looked so

That now I do not like to

Of maggots in his eyes.

He liked the rain-washed Cornish

And smell of ploughed-up soil,

He liked a landscape big and

And painted it in oil.

But least of all he liked that

Which hangs on Highgate

Of soaked Carrara-covered

For Londoners to fill.

He would have liked to say goodbye,

Shake hands with many friends,

In Highgate now his

Stick through his finger-ends.

You,

God, who treat him thus and thus,

Say "Save his soul and pray."You ask me to believe You andI only see decay.