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.