Poetry

Tom Glew

If this man hadn’t died untimely in his 37th year in 1886 his widow would not have been forced to keep house for my great-great whatever and his thirteen children. Nor would she have married him, long after his wife died. He bequeathed it all, everything he died possessed of, to her, to Lucy Glew, as was. Or so my brother says, with bitterness. The mansion on the hill in Aro Street, the Royal Tiger, the row of workers’ houses, the lot. The rents and revenues his children were accustomed to. And when she died she left it to the…

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