‘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
5th XII 2012
