The Communist ( In memory of my grandfather)

His handwriting on a volume
His thoughts holding my writing pen
His chubby- humoured thin face in my hand
The Second Army seeking refuge in a far land
His genes keep me warm in the cold again
The only communist I loved used to push me in a pram
Loving disagreement, no tasting yes
Bad tobacco, good wine in the blood of a young man
My melting- freezing mind resting in a ward on a bed
The only communist I loved used to push me in a pram
Listening to Radio Free Europe I laughed at him, and
I could have been a fascist for all that he cared
Freddy’ s moustache on the mountain snapshot there
In the Hilton, in the sands of Crete somewhere
His genes keep me warm in the cold again
The only communist I loved used to push me in a pram