Epiphany
Today is my father's birthday. He would have been 57. I miss, amongst a myriad other things, his way of pricking overblown seriousness with scurrilous absurdities. And buried in his poems I find this moment of pathos, which made me chuckle in light of my recent grappling with philosophical horse-bollocks:
I found out!
For one moment I knew.
Then it passed from me
In a drunken stupor
In the Market Place Gents
Andrew Herbert Flintham (1951 - 2001)
