Eric is a friend of mine,
He gave me a special book,
He’d written all by himself -
I couldn’t wait to look.

I eagerly opened the gift,
And what there did I find?
Why poems - all written by Eric.
He is so very kind.

Not just poems
But there were photographs, drawings too,
In that magical tomb,
All there for me to view.

I remember some of the photos,
The experiences were full,
From the characters at Beamish
To the fishermen in Istanbul.

The photos are all excellent,
Eric certainly has the “eye”,
But his love of photography
Is beaten by his love of the pie.

There were funny poems,
That gave me smiles,
Like the one about his garage,
Where he stores all his tiles.

Other poems were quite reflective,
Of life and all it’s charm.
I read them all so seriously,
Thus avoiding coming to harm.

The drawings added to the book,
They gave me lots of pleasure,
Keep it up, all you small people,
You contributed to a treasure.

But then in poem eighteen,
We were reminded that we’re mortal,
We’re all in a pen, waiting our turn,
To go through the final portal.

But ‘til that time comes,
Our friendship blooms,
We’re not really in pens, just waiting
But enjoying life, travelling, or in our homely rooms.

I enjoyed reading all the poems,
As Eric shared his thought.
I enjoyed it all the more
As the book I had not bought.

Then, as a special treat,
There at the very end,
Was a beautiful photo,
Thank you Eric, my friend.