Once, I had a friend called Hilda —
At least, I think that’s how it was,
The memory has grown dim now
Like faces through the window fog.
And, even then, I hardly knew
Enough to capture her whole life
In words that only dull the hue
Of her raindrop-refracted light.
Life is far too complicated
To reduce it to a snapshot
In a poem dedicated
To someone we have half forgot.
But still, I feel I have to try
A retelling of her story:
Hilda’s been on my mind, of late,
In her days of former glory.
I met her at my guitar class
When I was only twenty-three.
She was somewhere in her sixties
And much more musical than me.
She wasn’t one for reading notes,
But, like the Irish, played by ear —
Songs by Don McLean, John Denver;
Golden-oldies for all to hear.
And Hilda always brought good cheer.
Though her husband had long-since died,
I never saw her looking glum.
She had that rare pragmatic side
That I lacked then and still lack now —
Perhaps that’s why I looked to her
As someone I could lean to,
Like a sunflower to the sun.
I remember one occasion
I was invited round for tea.
She lived in an old terraced house
On Croft Street, Idle, Thirty-three.
My mum had once lived two-doors down,
Though I never knew at the time
That the lady next-door-but-one
Would one day be a friend of mine.
Anyway, I digress —
Let’s get back to the facts.
She told me how she’d sailed the world
In an all-singing-dancing act;
Performing on the cruise liners,
Where she met her future husband.
He had also been a singer —
The leader of a one-man band.
By and by, it’s safe to say they
Soon became a duo:
Joined in holy matrimony,
And lived in perfect harmony!
But, of course, you know I’m lying;
Employing artistic license —
More to make the plot romantic
Than any misleading pretence.
It’s just exactly like before:
My words can never be enough
To extract the imperfections
From a diamond in the rough.
That’s why I have to cut it down
And make it far more wearable —
Something you can show to friends,
While trying to look fashionable.
She can be the only author
Of her autobiography.
My account is but a shadow —
A five-act, romcom parody.
Once, I had a friend called Hilda —
At least, I think that’s how it was,
The memory has grown dim now
Like faces through the window fog.