ASSIGNATION
(Maurice Rutherford)

It's not, dear Death, that I'm afraid to meet
you yet, but rather that I'd like to be
prepared, you know, leave nothing incomplete,
have time to dot my 'i's, to cross each 't'
and tidy up my final manuscript -
(the sneaking thought occurs that I might then
make late amendments, even have it ripped
to shreds, have time to write it all again).
It's not that I'm afraid of you at all,
no, just that all the deaths I've known have left
so much unsaid, unchronicled, the small
important things; and guilt in those bereft.
I do not ask you to defer my day
but Death, do send me first your e.t.a.

My big problem with "shaking a double-six" as older workmates used to call it, is lacking life insurance. My missus and sons will be left with a bill for the obsequies. Some legacy!
Anyway it's the hospital for me in the morning. If all goes well I'll be released back into the wild after three days. Otherwise, anybody's guess. Last time I was having my innards sorted out it didn't go too well - complications. So I'm not looking forward to this lot. Anyone who says what doesn't kill you leaves you stronger is full of shit (verbum sap.)

Maurice Rutherford is a local poet, knocking on, so illness, death, and reflections on soldiering in World War II, feature in his work. But there's a lot more, including the kind of local references dear to my heart. Here's a couple of lines about his childhood, hearing the place names that stirred his curiosity -

... I heard the names of magic places
beyond the garden gate - Bowlalley Lane, Springhead
Little Switzerland, Land of Green Ginger, Wincolmlee.

(later, same poem)

... White City, Swanland, Rotenhering Staithe,
Sammy's Point and Argyle Street Bridge, Gloucester Street.