Sir Graham Henry at the Beach

To his grandson
he was ‘Sir Up and Under’.
His calf muscles sinewed
like the seams of hand stitched rugby balls.

Still strong
but slightly bent now,
his shoulders, touched by
accoladed scrum coaches & the queen’s sword,
carried the boy down to the beach
like a world cup.

I watched.

What had I done?
What have we all, compared
to the coach of men in black?
Walking down the beach
popping seaweed under feet
that have touched the hallowed
grass of Eden
retelling tales of defeating
the French to his daughter’s son.

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