‘Tis the season of ghosts and ghouls
and things that go bump at night.
Its also Diwali as the weather cools,
the Festival of hope and light
The night before this day of lights,
in West Bengal we pray to ghosts.
An annual homage, as per their rights,
we invite them home and be their hosts.
‘Are you homesick?’ she asks, every time I call.
‘No, I’m not,’ I say, not homesick at all.
This here is my home since our baby was small
Her life measured in inches on my bright kitchen wall.
‘There’s really not much to miss,’ I say
Apart from you, Ma, who live so far away.
We have the telephone though, we talk everyday
And it’s here in Glasgow I choose to stay.
Where folk are friendly and full of cheer
Needing fish ‘n chips with lots of beer.
The only thing I don’t like here
Is the dratted rain all ‘round the year.
She was just a child
learning to be wild.
No pretence or guile
in that honest metallic smile,
Pure uncomplicated joy
which she spent on the boy
who squeezed her heart,
when they were apart.
Innocent buzz, in her head
as she giggled, asleep in bed.
He wore his Halo like a Crown,
A shiny jewel, a coveted treasure.
Confident he was, that it would bring,
Everyone he met, much needed pleasure.
It did do that, as folk these days,
Were a troubled lot, so under pressure.
He blogged, he spoke, he claimed to see,
As a soothsayer for modern troubled times.
His WhatsApp posts went viral at once,
Also, his many ‘thought for the day’ rhymes.
And soon he became a cult to them,
Those who thought him to be sublime.
A lawyer he was, honest and upright,
In a town, southern, hot, and dusty.
When times were different, and honour was might,
And value systems were not quite rusty.
Hero to his son, and a friend to his daughter,
They did not need to miss their mother.
For he gave them all they needed and more,
Loved them, so they needed no other.
A man of honour, he showed true grit,
When the rabid dog came to town.
Picked up a gun, and stood his ground,
Then, sadly, shot it down.