of the Dead
When the beaches start to empty,
I'll find a little waterfront joint -
it's what you always did.
Greek flags lift listlessly
on gently rocking boats
bemused by tidelessness;
dazed by whole days of sun,
trail dully back in flip flops.
I'll order a bottle of beer or two -
to be taken consecutively -
by way of valediction.
Your dodgy heart gave out at last,
years of raising merry hell
beyond the best predictions,
confounding your doctors,
a whole platoon of actuaries
with your reckless nonchalance,
of imperial purple.
With your surprisingly delicate digestion
you could never manage a whole cow pie,
but pints of bitter disappeared with ease.
I still can't see you as a twittering shade.
Hell, you might even wander in now,
to fix me with your glittering eye:
"Fancy a beer then, sunshine?"
Another time perhaps. Goodbye old chap.
Farewell, you bearded wonder.
If you have any comments on this poem, David Callin would be
pleased to hear from you.