Speaking 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;

Northern families,
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,
your countenance
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.

David Callin

If you have any comments on this poem,  David Callin would be pleased to hear from you.