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Past Times

Waltzing through the snowy fields along a country lane,
I meet a quite strange person who recalls me by my name.
I know his face from somewhere -- yet I can't remember where,
And so I start to talk to him to work out why he's there.

He seems to know exactly who I am and where I live --
These are private details that I very rarely give.
I wonder why he knows these things -- Is he FBI?
KGB? MI5? I'm telling myself lies.

Suddenly something clicks, and I now remember all.
I now know where I saw that face -- fourth grade, as I recall.
He was my favourite teacher; he taught me all I know --
It doesn't explain, however, why he turns up in the snow.

"I'm getting old," he croaked and spluttered, making me feel bad.
"I'm not that long for this world -- I'll go very soon, my lad.
"You were my brightest pupil -- you were clever and concise,
"So that's why I'm giving you this -- I'm sure you'll find it nice."

With that he thrust upon me a large book. I had doubts.
I looked down at them, thinking hard about what this book's about.
It was all his memoirs! All his thoughts! Every last one!
I tried to give them back to him, but, alas, he'd gone.

On my way back to my home it snowed with all its might,
Which gave me the strange feeling that it all was, in fact, right.
I read his thoughts with relish and retired soon to bed --
I dreamt about the old man as his thoughts swam through my head.

Chris Cockbill


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