At around a quarter to midnight,

I shall go and look

at the world from my front

door step and take stock,

a small overdue cigar

whispering to me of times past.

In my pocket a small brown bag

with a small pinch of salt,

several pieces of coal,

a piece of brown bread

and five gold coins

hugging the paper tightly, not daring

to let go, lest the promise of better times be dashed.

I think of you, as the night and the clock draws on,

have we spoken this year, have I been there for you

or did my troubles seem to be too great,

so much bitterness in thought

that I could not bring myself to say hello

to an old friend, only ringing

when I had good news to impart,

when the cigar smell would have cheered us

no end, and the dream of a stoked fire

and casual forty year old whisky,

burning our throats

would have been the best way to end this year.

I salute you my friend, long lost it seems

through the stream of time,

no dam to prevent aging,

only the mouth of the river

as it greets the ocean

and gets lost in its tragic roar,

one river tear at a time

that I shed

with a breaking heart

as I tell the wind

that I love you.

 

Ian D. Hall 2017.