A Man Called Norman

A Man Called Norman

He lived alone in the house near the bend

kept to himself, not keen to pretend

garden half-wild, boots by the door

folks passed him by, said little more

No wife, no children, no tales to boast

just toast and tea and quiet ghosts

his curtains drawn by half-past five

yet every morning, he’d rise, alive

He fed the birds, same time each day

waved to the postman, turned away

nodded at dogs with gentler eyes

spoke only when he had to reply

They said he’d once worked on the tracks

lost a hand, never got it back

“Railway man,” someone recalled

“Went off the rails when his brother called”

The town moved on, as towns will do

forgot the old in favour of new

but Norman stayed, a steady mark

a porchlight in the creeping dark

One winter morning, no smoke, no light

no twitch of curtain, no fire at night

they knocked, then broke the silent door

he lay in peace on the kitchen floor

No fanfare came, no tribute played

just a note from the rent unpaid

but the birds kept coming, day by day

waiting for Norman, in their own way

And those who passed now speak his name

with less disdain and more soft shame

they plant wildflowers by his gate

for a man called Norman, but it’s too late.