**Mysterious Muse: Uncovering the Depths of Bill Through Gareth Culshaw’s Poetry**
Ever stumbled upon an old acquaintance and felt like time had played a cruel trick on you? It’s quite the mental gymnastics, isn’t it? Seeing that once familiar face, weathered by the years…you might even have remarked, “Well, bless his soul, he’s sprouted more grey than a winter’s dawn.” Which brings us straight into the tender web of today’s spotlight poem, “The Cleaner,” where the poet’s encounter with a nearly forgotten soul triggers a torrent of memory and emotion. Join me, and let’s saunter through this lyrical journey of juxtaposition, recollection and the undying essence of human connection.
—
I couldn’t believe he was still alive.
It is a decade since I saw him.
He looked ill even then.
His hair still trying its best to cover
his head. The slumped shoulder that
carried a wooden ladder.
Rolled cigarette like a budgie
perch in his lips. His eyes brown,
needed cleaning too. He use to
have a swinging bucket from his hand.
It held water that never seemed
to drain away. The rag was a fist
in his pocket, ready to unleash
greyness to the glass. He would sip
pints from every pane he cleaned.
When I saw him the other day
it took me back to when he squeaked
on my bedroom window, while father’s
voice filtered up to him like chimney smoke.
In reply he only ever grumbled.
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