The kind old face, the egg-shaped head, <br />The tie, discretely loud, <br />The loosely fitting shooting clothes, <br />A closely fitting shroud. <br /> <br />He liked old city dining rooms, <br />Potatoes in their skin, <br />But now his mouth is wide to let <br />The London clay come in. <br /> <br />He took me on long silent walks <br />In country lanes when young. <br />He knew the names of ev'ry bird <br />But not the song it sung. <br /> <br />And when he could not hear me speak <br />He smiled and looked so wise <br />That now I do not like to think <br />Of maggots in his eyes. <br /> <br />He liked the rain-washed Cornish air <br />And smell of ploughed-up soil, <br />He liked a landscape big and bare <br />And painted it in oil. <br /> <br />But least of all he liked that place <br />Which hangs on Highgate Hill <br />Of soaked Carrara-covered earth <br />For Londoners to fill. <br /> <br />He would have liked to say goodbye, <br />Shake hands with many friends, <br />In Highgate now his finger-bones <br />Stick through his finger-ends. <br /> <br />You, God, who treat him thus and thus, <br />Say 'Save his soul and pray.' <br />You ask me to believe You and <br />I only see decay.<br /><br />John Betjeman<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/on-a-portrait-of-a-deaf-man/
