As it fades

‘Write me a poem’ he said

as we sat at a bar

beside the Nile.

And with his charm

and assurance

he built the walls

that my father

had failed to build.

Why me, I shall never

understand, for

in desperation

one hot day

he was called.

And a sigh of relief

echoed through the wadis,

as young men

called for ‘Mam’

and tears of banter

belied the task

that few will know.

And the fruit

from the trees

would recur

in his dreams

friend or foe.

Because it will not fade

in some old pub,

when the regulars ask:

Did you have a good day?

‘Legend,’ he will reply,

and avoiding the smoke

he thinks of friends,

of Kathryn and the kind.

John H Davies

5^th XII 2012