It wasn’t till long,
That bone-chilling song,
from the trumpeter blowing that tune.
I could feel your presence,
Tui in hand, not making any sense,
slurring words in the sultry afternoon.
A blunt ciggy with a glowing end,
blowing up smoke in our uncle’s den,
but you said, “She’ll be right.”
“She wasn’t right,” Uncle said,
as he put you in a headlock on your bed,
and told you a piece of his mind.
From then, into the army you went
you said, a time well spent.
I remember that story with every detail.
Those days in the afternoon sun,
speaking about everything you’ve done.
Just a thought, I remember, oh so very well.