Every so often, he'd come from the West,
Backpack on shoulders, casually dressed.
My mother's foster brother, my uncle in a way,
Not a care in the world, he lived for each day.

He'd tell us a tale, then the weather report,
Of his army days and news of sport,
How he cracked his skull and still survived,
-It was a breath of fresh air when he arrived!

He claimed that at fifteen, with catapult in hand,
He fired at the headmaster with his elastic band,
A piece of rubber hit him right between the eyes,
Expelled as a result- but life soon made him wise.

As fit as a fiddle from the bike he rode,
Cycling back and forth from his humble abode,
His illness came as a surprise,
As he fought the pain he could not disguise.

Homesick and weary, he felt truly trapped,
Then the inevitable- his temper snapped!
He headed home, left his pills,gave into fate,
No-one could save him - it was much too late.

I can picture him at heaven's gate,
The pain now gone, having carried that weight,
Pulling pranks on Saint Peter, doing it in style,
Watching the world's high drama with a radiant smile!

© David Moynihan 2010