For my Uncle Graham

Those good old days of Santa's sleigh
Feel different now he's gone away.
His joyful songs I used to play,
Those tapes which made my childhood gay.

Off to the chapel, on Blueberry Hill,
A winter wedding in December chill.
In that wee kilt, I felt such thrill,
And sailed to lands of pleasure filled.

My mind was flown to sunny seas
And Christmas spent in balmy breeze.
I stayed up late, like the locals please,
Snapping crackers under coconut trees.

I long for those sweet, blissful days,
And the memories I keep will never stray,
Like every year, we'd go to to stay
With Graham and Imelda, we couldn't wait.

Up past Belmont, with Scotland in sight,
We knew we'd arrived when in the light
There in the window, with sheer delight,
Imelda and Graham would be waving each night.

We'd search for clues and hunt for treasure,
Dress as pirates and hell for leather
For once, not arguing, Peter and Heather,
Would find our bounty and enjoy it, together.

We'd go to Girvan, to Graham's Mum and Dad,
Nancy and Willison were always glad
To see us all, and give us gifts,
Then to the beach and jellyfish.

We'd all look out to Ailsa Craig
Where Waverly would tread the waves.
Then back to town and the penny arcades,
The 'musemements where our dreams were made.

We'd walk up Bine in any weather
Strolling through the Purple Heather
And with the folk club, we'd sing a few
Of the songs, which thanks to Graham, we knew.

As I grew older and could send a beer,
I'd visit with glee at least twice a year,
When Graham and Tony would take me on walks
From Ashton Lane to the Oran Mor.
 
With passing seasons I grew so tall,
And in his music, still enthralled.
The singalongs and melodies of old,
Replaced by stories forever told.

Almost at once, the tapes were flipped,
Yet still, each year, more songs were ripped.
I loved to get those glistening discs,
With memories yet to reminisce.

Those songs have never felt so true,
Or near to me, as I think of you.
It's hard to recall the man I knew,
Impossible to fathom why his time was slewn.

I wonder if he knows, that now,
I follow in his footsteps proud.
Bequeathing music, rhyme, and sound,
And rousing reels to play aloud.

I miss my friend, who filled my past,
With thought, and song, and happiness.
But every year, I'll raise my glass,
To that dear man from Inverness.