He was one of those rare people
Who heard birdsong in the silence,
Who saw colour in the dark,
Whose rich tongue could describe
The tantalising aroma of foreign meals
As our senses were ***** by cheap perfume in expensive bottles,
Who appreciated olive skin and who glorified brown eyes,
Who could tell with conviction the tales of his youth
When the cream sat atop the milk in a glass bottle
Topped with paper which the crows would pick away
Before they greedily swallowed its innards,
Whose hands were warm and comforting
Though rough and dark,
Who could make you believe, as the bombs dropped,
That everything would be fine,
That when we wake up the next morning
The daffodils will still rattle with passionate intensity,
That the glass would sit calmly in the window pane,
That his rough hands would still be on mine
As the sun rose and the noise hushed.

And they called him mad.