Hermann the German

“They call me Hermann the German,” he calls

in an ever-so-slightly falsetto stage voice. 

I wonder if this is because

he’s introduced himself that way to ‘Them’, too.

His once-perfect English deteriorates now

and German and French (we are all in France) creep in

to his conversation, which is more anecdote than dialogue. 

As usual, the stories are peppered with the Big Car Smash

and the Plane Crash and the piece of metal in his arm,

which has been taken out again.

Last year no-one saw Hermann and no Christmas cards

arrived for those who expected them.

We all thought we’d seen the last of him

but now we learn he was in hospital.

He invites me to feel his head (I’m not keen)

where they cut him from here, right down here

and down to here (somewhere in the chest area.)

It’s not clear to us what they did, but

“they took away my driving license!”  he chuckles,

“But it’s ok, I still have a Swiss one!” - punchline laughter.

So we have been blessed one more summer by

this genial Europhile historian with impeccable timing,

turning up to camp in our yard just when we are here.

No longer searching for flint tools or taking aerial photographs,

now he is giving away all his positives and negatives,

he tells me.  Giving away his flints.  Everything.

Everything except his campervan. 

Maybe it is better for him to travel hopefully,

believing he’ll find someone to drive him next year,

than to arrive at the knowledge that he won’t,

but I think this was our last meeting

with Hermann the German.