They’re leaving, one by one,

those people, of my distant youth.

I see the women then,

in bright printed cotton.

The men, bronzed by the desert sun,

gleaming with youth and vigor.

Now they slip away,

leaving us the fewer.

The keening wind blows –

the dust and sand.

Songs of days long gone.

 

We’re leaving, one by one.

Our verse is said.

Commas and pauses are no more,

only the tiny mark that says.

Enough, stop.

Good bye my friends.

Those were good times we had.

 

 

David Garlick, Hinkley, England, May 1997