Echoes

          TrevedyYves

ECHOES

Just a voice in the night

On the radio.

The accent homely and very British.

The voice elderly and uncertain.

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'There are seven hundred and fifty of us'

He said;

'All that's left.'

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He was speaking from Zimbabwe

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He was speaking from

The Rhodesia

Of his youth;

My youth.
I could hear the echoes
Of my own past
In his voice.

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Maybe I knew him.

Once upon a time.

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And as he spoke

I was back there,

A Brit

In Africa.

Overwhelmed by the sun

And the altitude

And the beauty

And the fun

And the friendship

And the happy people

Of every colour.

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Fifty years ago.

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Now he is leaving.

Britain has offered asylum.

He and the others like him

Are penniless,

Destitute,

Frail,

Sick,

Dying.

No longer golden boys and girls.

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Only a very small tragedy

In the larger picture.

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But a tragedy even so.

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Only the echoes remain.

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