‘Hello, Dutch,’ I say,
as an old friend’s music
plays on my phone,
his voice recorded
full of vigour,
then.
The years are not so long,
though long enough,
since the world lost you.
A little longer still since you and I
made what we knew
were our last goodbyes.
It was Bill we said goodbye to
that night (your old mate,
my ex – whom you knew
even longer than I did)
and you sang for him, for us all,
one final time.
And the little boys
were men already,
whose birthday parties
you used to bring songs to:
‘Oh the fox went out
one chilly night …’
hunched over your guitar,
swaying slightly,
tapping your toe,
eyes bright. ‘Play
St James’ Infirmary’
Bill would beg … and you did.
After the wake, you and I
in a quiet corner
reminisced, as the stragglers
packed up, and we briefly
exchanged the new facts
of our lives.
Then we nodded and parted,
the link between us gone,
shared memories laid to rest.
As you were too, at last,
sixteen years later. (Living far,
I didn’t attend your wake.)
I like to imagine you and Bill
meeting and yarning somewhere
now, as you did. Meanwhile
I say hello again
to you, your well-known voice,
and all those memories.
Sharing with Poets and Storytellers United on 18 July '25, for Friday Writings #186: Survive Out of Spite. But I can't find any spite in me today, and there are other ways of surviving, such as in the memories of friends. (Dutch, being a celebrated muso – not top of the pops but with a devoted following in both Australia and Holland, and admired by the American bluesman Brownie McGhee who became his friend – also survives in his recordings and their appreciation by blues-lovers.)
