Hatchet nose and hooded brow
A wisp of white hair, wind blown now,
Two hawk, blue eyes which see within,
Bush bred, gaunt and pig hunt trim.
Old now in his senior years
Missing June with hidden tears,
Saw Hiroshima's atom death
With tommy gun and sake breath.

A legacy on freckled brow
In melanoma's tumors now,
Lives alone on simple fare
With Smoky cat and favoured chair.
In Wanganui, coastal town
Loves fish and chips and Tui brown.

Hard hands reflect a life of graft
His good firm grip in handshake grasp,
Trialist of some All Black fame
Bread maker in the baking game.
Shearer,farmer, fencer, Dad
White baiting always made him brag,
A dead shot across hills of green
Where hinds would pause to graze unseen.

Daughters fair pursued by some
Who walked the gauntlet of his gun,
Taught the grand kids natural skills
Like setting traps for possum kills,
Shoot a rabbit, catch a fish,
A fry up of my favourite dish.

Missing mates who chose to die
Requiring friends to mourn and cry,
Missing Brian, his only son
And June, his wife,the special one,
Leaving life a vacant space,
A colourless and pallid place,
Except in his emphatic way
He looks at me and stands to say...
"Life must go on my son"
Go mount your bike and pack your gun
And head up to yon wooded hill
To stalk the stag and make the ****.

Staunch, *****, a man of men
Is Verne Bell who I call my friend.

Marshalg
Tauranga
8 November 2009