Our Tom

He liked to paint his pictures using words
Our Tom
With a grin so slight it might have been
Contemplation, it touched his eyes though
You could see the fires burning, you could
A tangible silence that slipped from your grasp with
A slight scratch, scratch, he’d lay his soul bare
As I remember
A rush of colour, oh yes
And a blinding blaze of funny little observations
To be laid upon the chopping block
He wouldn’t waste his time with all this etiquette nonsense
Oh no, not our Tom
He’d blunt the knife and scratch around at the surface
And you’d never know what he could dig up
Until it hit you with a thousand tiny metaphors
That raced around your brain until it popped
Just a little, I recall
But believe you me, it could hurt so wonderfully at times
That euphoric flood of swirling moments
He’d pitch to you in a black and white that
Would never really stay put, now I think of it
In for a penny, in for a pound, he’d say
He was like that, our Tom

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