He’d let his hair grow during winter;
Just as well, for he visited
Old Blighty unexpectedly
In March, and no one there he knew
Had liked the “military cut”
He’d borne last year. Now back in Zion,
And for the first time trying hard
To make his mark as local poet,
He told the barber “Just a trim”.
“But hair looks better short, my friend;
They’ll welcome you in the I.D.F.”
As all his locks fell to the floor,
With a wry smile the “local poet”
Sat still and held his English tongue.
10 April 1997