Radio Silence

As he sailed past sixty-four
with each day passing faster,
it came as a shock
to acknowledge the rapidity
of his body’s deterioration.

An early spinal injury
had left him a leg
with little feeling,
which shook his confidence.

Sometimes, without his stick
he worried people
would think him drunk
when he stumbled.

His knees hurt whenever
he got up.
That had happened quickly.

And he often gave the impression
he was ignoring people,
when in reality
he’d never heard them.

Recently she asked if
he’d join her for church,
and he politely declined,
despite attempting commitment
to being more open
about such things.

It now felt hypocritical.
All he’d ever experienced
was radio silence,
despite his half-hearted search
for something spiritual.

She asked where he found solace,
and he shrugged.

She asked again in the morning.
They’d both thought about it,
and he offered:
Friends, family, people, poetry, music, you…?
‘But you hate people’ she smiled.
She’d meant it kindly.

Whatever the truth,
he missed his avuncular ghosts.
And when he thought about
solace he considered its meaning.
And realised the tempting
symmetry of
solace in solitude.

Or was that
solitude in solace?

John H Davies

9th VIII 2026

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The Long Way Home

As he sat in a pew, someone asked
where he was from.

He hadn’t considered it for many years.
He knew where he’d been born
and raised
in old Albion.

But the several places he’d
later lain his
hat
had left him a gypsy
which he sometimes offered
lightheartedly.

When only a teenager
he visited the great southern lands
beyond the equator.
His mother thought he’d never return
but he did.

In the years that followed
he’d felt at home
in the narrow lands
twixt two great continents
a thin green isthmus
small but meaningful.

And more recently
the ancient cradle
where the acacias grow
where he was happy enough
to die.

And now returned to the land
of the long white cloud
he continues the search for home.

Wondering whether it’s a lover
or family
people

places
aromas
vistas
dreams

or still a road diverging in that wood.


John H Davies

VI July 2026

Harbour

I found home within you.
It took some time
To realize you’d been there,
All along.

Of course I knew it.
For I always rushed to you
When I was hurting.

I don’t know why you waited.
I think you knew about
Life’s synchronicity.

You knew what I did not.
And I thank whatever higher power
That I pushed away.
My reasons
My experience
My cognitive process

Until I found home within you.
Quiet
Kind
And still

John H Davies
11th VI 2026

If you go away

If you go away
For quite a while
You’ll be surprised
When you return.

The small things
The smells
The trinkets
Those memories

You’d lost
Maybe purposefully
Maybe not
But they are there

And they welcome you
As if
They had sat there dormant
But breathing

My wonderful people

John H Davies
19 IV 2026

Ending

Do you have it in you?
Could you call time?

A friend said once
on hearing of a successful attempt
that he was a coward.

Took the easy way out.
If he but knew
the pain you have to feel
to get you to that moment
you would liken him to a lion.

John H Davies

29th III 2026

Cross to bear

We all have a cross to bear.
I can smell the aroma of mine

Damp wood as it struggles to burn

It feels heavy, but not all the time
As if occasionally some memory
Lifts the weight from my shoulder.

And then, without warning,
Despite the smoke
It weighs down heavily
Digging into my shoulder
(I remember from my Sandhurst days)
Forcing the knees until they buckle

I know what it is now:
I know what to do
I know what it is
I know that if I’m patient it will pass.

But recently, the burden
Has seemed too much
Such that it would be better
To discard that cross
And watch it smoulder by the wayside

Until the rain
And the green
And renewal
And annoyance…

John H Davies
28th III 2026

Here be ghosts

The ghosts here are kind.

I’m in an old wooden house
Flat packed from Birmingham, England
To Kenya in 1900.

Earlier, as I emptied the bath
I heard voices.

A conversation from beneath the tub,
And I looked hard to find its source.

Sometimes when I’m sitting
Reading

I feel someone pass along the verandah
Outside

I don’t mind - I rather welcome
The ghosts

They keep me company
As no other living human
Managed.

John H Davies
28th III 2026

Maasai

I met a stranger
as I sat in the pick-up
surveying unfolding savannah
from an elevated hill.
 
He had materialized from the
fresh and scented earth
dressed in Maasai garb
and approached the car
 
with a stranger’s greeting
I’ve only known
on this continent,
where everyone might need a friend
some day.
 
He was well into his years,
with weather beaten face
exhibiting a dose
of pure integrity,
 
a red shuka
draped in the local way,
tied in with a huge
intimidating panga
swinging from his belt.
 
I was not afraid.
And soon we got to talking
in a cobbled mixture
of English and Swahili
(I cannot speak Maasai).
 
He didn’t know how old he was,
but his eyes betrayed
a careworn fatigue.
 
His family grown up,
departed;
his purpose diminished
and forgotten.
 
So he had returned
to the nomadic life,
the story into which
he’d been created.
 
I reached into the vehicle
to offer him water
and when I turned back,
found him gone,
 
dissolved into the bush
as dark clouds
threatened the sunset.

John H Davies

16th V 2025

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