The final day of 2021 is no time for partisan politics or social complaint. So I have elected to dedicate the occasion to a poem I wrote and, as is my occasional habit, I took one of my books down from the shelf, dusted it a bit and opened to a random page.

Page 53 of The Smell of Tweed and Tobacco yielded the following, a poem I wrote on the occasion of my brother Jack’s death. He was a lovely guy, as different from me as a brother can be, yet we remained close over his lifetime.

At the Window

A small inheritance from my brother
And what does it mean?
It means he loves me, found me needy
late in life
That he has stood at the window and moved on
and now I am the next in line
and will move on like him,
but without a legacy to leave

It means the small, cold feeling
of a printer-cartridge run out
or unexpected electric bills,
need no longer turn me to panic
He smiled at me from a photograph
the only one I have and put his arms around me,
taking care of my careless self
Grins is grin, winks and leaves the window

My absolute best wishes to all my friends, and those who will become my friends in 2022.