Jonathan

Jonathan, the publishers have not called today, only my mother

She says she has a brain tumour, merely benign, a bruise, a shadow, 

Jonathan, I trust you will keep this to your self for now, 

I don't want the world thinking she is dying, when she isn't

While on the phone to my mother, while thinking of you

I noticed that, the perfect silver owl that you bought me has gone missing

It saddened me and I couldn't explain it

It was the last thing of you in my house, except for your letters

Except for the Iris that you planted out by the gate, while singing Persian folk songs

Jonathan, I was always your student, with crooked buttons and dirty face

Happy to follow you, to smell your scent mixed with aftershave, 

Listening to you as you spoke of countries that no longer exist,

Hearing of your friends, the priest, the latin teacher, the poet and the sailor

Feeling you put your arm around me, or smelling your cooking in the evenings

Your laugh was loud, your love was soft and your line proud

Jonathan, I miss you, I tend your Irises, and I keep your letters tied in a bunch

But I've thought hard, while trying not to think or worry of my mother

And I think you have my owl, In fact I know

So Jonathan, I am going to come to Italy and get it, and you.