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Hands

I have hundreds of copies of my father’s poems in boxes and folders. He wrote a poem or two most days of his adult life,  and when I left home, he used to send me every week carbon copies of his latest ones.

A folder of poems by my father, which he typed on his Remington Noiseless typewriter – not so noiseless from what I remember as a child.
A poem by my father Warren Richards, 1973
Rescued from my sister’s garage, it has been serviced by George Blackman, Bexhill on Sea.