No tabloids for him, always The Irish News,
and that, mainly for deaths at the end.
Four slow reads he managed every day;
morning, after meals and just before bed,
the close printed crossword after dinner,
saving until the last his beloved sport.
In my young head he was, still is, a sport.
Eager, or pretending, for my small news.
Had I gobbled up all of my dinner?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem