native loam

Native Loam

He has sold his house in Ibiza, lived
here forty years, time to go home,
something about burial in the right soil.

He hasn’t bought a ticket yet, sits on
the verandah of a hotel soaking up
the sun it makes him look prosperous

He’s old but not that ancient, I think
he’s a bit down; tomorrow he’ll be
his old self and have a glass of wine.

At least I hope so; he’s a good bloke,
it’s a fact though, that many expats want
to be entered in their own native soil

Even the sanest people have this urge,
strange, come to think of it, death has
no memory and mud turns to dust.