For over fifteen years he has been in loco parentis (or Poetry Father) for the Poetry Society's Young Poets Award writing week at one of the Arvon Foundation's writing centres.

Tending His Memory

He liked a good English apple, did my father.
When he died, we planted James Grieve, Blenheim Orange.
We eat, give to friends, make wine. Some I pick early,
wrap in pages of the Echo, pack in boxes.
In the cellar they will last through winter,
preserved, I am told, by newsprint and the damp.

Until Christmas they remain firm, sharp.
Thereafter, the slightest bruise spreads like bad news.
By July, they will have shrivelled to scrotums,
spilling bright fungi of startling delicacy,
yellow, pink, green. I commit them to compost,
tend this year's crop, sample the new wine, miss him.

Zen and the Art of Peeling an Orange

Saggitarius the site inspector