| In later life I retired from poetry, ploughed the profits into a family restaurant in the town of Holzminden, in lower Saxony. It was small and traditional: dark wood panelling, deer antlers, linen tablecloths and red candles, one beer tap on the bar and a dish of the day, usually Bauernschnitzel. Weekends were busy, pensioners wanting the set meal, though year on year takings were falling. Some nights the old gang came in— Jackie, Max, Lavinia, Mike not looking at all himself, and I’d close the kitchen, hang up my striped apron, take a bottle of peach schnapps from the top shelf and say, “Mind if I join you?” “Are we dead yet?” someone would ask. Then with a plastic toothpick I’d draw blood from my little finger to prove we were still among the living. From the veranda we’d breathe new scents from the perfume distillery over the river, or watch the skyline for the nuclear twilight. Copyright © 2014 by Simon Armitage. Used with permission of the author |
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