WHEN JAMES BOND WAS TACKLING SCARAMANGA , THE MAN WITH THE GOLDEN GUN,
MY BIG BROTHER WAS LYING ON A MORTUARY SLAB (1974)
A white room and a body on a table.
I stood waiting for the sheet to be removed.
I saw his frozen face and nodded a yes.
The identification had been approved.
They had brushed his hair back, no fringe
The way it used to hang. It was him alright
But a different him to the one I knew,
The joking one, the upbeat one, the
breathing one.
In seconds, lives can be encapsulated
Complete from a glance to a nod of the head,
In fast flash-frames of memory, a collage,
The life of my big brother, now lying dead.
No second unit stunt team to engineer the
crash,
No action sequence for 007 to escape from,
No gadgets and gizmos from Q, no fiction,
He misjudged the curve and the swerve took him.
He misjudged the curve and the swerve took him.
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