An attempt at a sonnet about myself that ends on a wobbly note.
When I am dead, think only this of me
He was a man, take him for all in all
Awkward and shy, timid in company
Who never thought of self as ten feet tall.
Dry wit and puckish slant on life he saved
For those whose foibles lingered o’er his trail.
Oft saw the funny side of folk and misbehaved
In what he said, sometimes beyond the pale.
Of years a score and more chalk-facing in Hong Kong
The classroom’s daily grind for long his chore.
Retired to Austral shores, time seemed not long
Had no regrets, his home for evermore.
At the end of the day let this be said
Though his sins were as scarlet, what we wrote was read.
[1949_arrived Hong Kong; 51-51/57-58_WYHK; 62-83_WYK; 84-06_Australia]