(For Bill Robinson,
1951 – 2017)
We’d talked music and
then you stepped away,
Vanished, with a final
raised hand, around
The corner as I tipped our
coffee grounds
Down the sink. Your mug
almost went astray,
Slippery in my wet hands;
pots will fall prey
To callous floor tiles,
there being no rebound
From shattered. You’d
said you fancied the sound
Of a banjo duelling your
ukulele.
I was driving next day
when the call came
So let it ring, at that
time more concerned
With motorway lane
hoppers, traffic flow
And variable speed
cameras. Back home
At last, and relaxed, only
then I learned
Dave Alton
