Though you protest that your birthday means nothing to you,

To me, your friend… your comrade and sometime companion in the challenging light

The shoulder each we offered

Upon one another in dark days that we suffered side by side

Only reminds me of how fragile the rhythm between us has become.

Once I made my way to Oxford, a night of comedy in your honour

And in which the only laughter

Was on my head and the gallantry whispered gently goodbye under

The Moon in which we stared at as much at that moment

As we did when we were children.

It became obscured by clouds and dust, broken relics, promises kept and love

And supposed cigarette smoke that you blew beautifully down my throat

As you murmured to me that your birthday meant nothing anymore.

Your birthday was always important to me…

It still is, the day in which my thoughts turn to you most of all,

The day in which the hours slowly turn inevitably to when all is dust

And not just time but the flashes of memory

In the years we have been friends all become scattered to the Oxfordshire winds.

A Happy birthday reads my card to you, a momentous day

In which I hope there will always be a secret smile whilst you deny how much

The day really means to you and in which the smell of a single

Rose captures your heart under the memory of the rising Moon.

 

Ian D. Hall 2014.