Goodbye Uncle Vaughan
As a child I thought you peculiar, black hair, white skin, gawky behaviour.
Looking like the devil’s accountant, talking like a witty dissident.
Living alone? Could you be gay? It didn’t matter either way.
Antique bayonets, guns, swords, stamps, supplied your fun,
the Sunday Times shown your patience in our home.
Cryptic crossword skilled, five down quickly filled.
A place we’ll leave on Christmas eve,
our lounge chair, you’re not there,
The inspiration for this poem should be self-evident. Don’t worry, normal service will be ressumed after a brief bout of the traditional sadness-ranty-insomnia.