Uncle Alfred
- Terry Hodgson
- 12 minutes ago
- 1 min read
Uncle Alfred returned from India,
With a carved cigarette box,
Then slumped in his socks
On our worn leather sofa,
Within the bay window, and slept.
His box breathed fragrant odours.
Perhaps he could tell me a story
Of elephants, snakes and palaces
Carved upon the ivory.
I surveyed his snoring back,
And longed for him to wake,
So he could say where he'd been
And of things he'd seen. But they
Came and shooed me away.
So all I recall is a balding pate,
A snore, bulked against the light,
Myself at four, disconsolate.
©Terry Hodgson2025
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