A Man Called Norman
No one wanted to know till it was too late
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.
About the Creator
Marie381Uk
I've been writing poetry since the age of fourteen. With pen in hand, I wander through realms unseen. The pen holds power; ink reveals hidden thoughts. A poet may speak truth or weave a tale. You decide. Let pen and ink capture your mind❤️
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Comments (4)
Getting lost in the generation you were born into, while the world moves on, losing friends, contacts, and your elderly family members over the years until you are one of the oldest ones. Norman here, did get seen, but not touched over the years, until something was missing (light, smoke). That is sad. Thank you, well done!
This is just so sad. Norman lived a quiet life, but should always be remembered for the little things that he did. Good job.
This was deeply moving — a quiet, dignified portrait of loneliness, memory, and belated empathy. The rhythm is gentle but powerful, and Norman lingers like a shadow we all recognize too late. Beautifully done.
What a lovely ode to Norman. Sadly, it is true of many old people today: no one cares until it is too late.