Tuesday, 4 September 2012

Dave

His accent.
He wasn't from
round these parts.
I asked for rum and black.
He rolled his cigarettes
with liquorice papers.
In my seventeen
year old eyes,
this was sophistication.

I once saw him walking along the railway line.
Railways... it was always railways with him,
he even wrote a book of poems
- Train Spotting long
before the famous one
rolled along.

I saw him walking along the railway line.
He was wearing a shirt the same colour
as the sky, hand in hand with a small child,
his son.

Over the years,
like parallel tracks
rolling towards
the horizon
the distance
between us
narrowed.

We could talk about structuralism,
post-modernism, revolution and Milton
- poke fun at lecturers.

My best memory?
A summer's day standing in someone's
garden and him saying let's get drunk
and we did slowly emptying the fridge
like naughty boys stealing cakes
from Auntie's pantry.

Now the world has indeed
been turned upside down, you finally
disappearing right over the horizon,
fizzling out like the filament
in the final light bulb.


4 comments:

  1. "Over the years,
    like parallel tracks
    rolling towards
    the horizon
    the distance
    between us
    narrowed". . .

    love these lines, the inclination to prospective, visual and as a set of mind. . .

    ReplyDelete
  2. Beautiful recessive conclusion, the snuffed out glimmer.

    ReplyDelete
  3. Thank you Tom. 'The snuffed out glimmer' pretty much sums up what happened to Dave.

    ReplyDelete

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