He´s the missing Oncle,
the one with the sombrero,
embarrrassingly brown, and
chilling out on a sunlit terrace
doing a crossword in Spanish.

That something in the mannered way
he fingers a cigar, exhibits
a thought I´d rather see the back of.
Something about the eyes, that smirk,

could send shivers up
the iron spine of a Gurkha.
But at night when he draws the mosquito net
it’s the past he´s breathing,

then cross checking pistol and map,
sleeps in his sweat foreve