Face wizened, seamed, like rivulets cutting their way through a cragged mountain pass, your dark button eyes regard a world of shopping centres, sales and Starbucks.
Khaki has given way to Surawal, parade ground to waste ground, Kukri has been long sheathed.
You are present but almost forgotten, your reward for a life-time’s devotion, a broken bench by the Thames in the sunshine.
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