He turned up pissed, fresh

from the pub: glazed face,

breathing beer, gazed at the boy

in the front desk, stroked

his blond shock of hair.

It was all such a hoot.

About him flew books,

duffel bags, hockey boots.

The ale wore off, he growled

for quiet; clutched

with nicotine fingers the Penguin

book of contemporary verse,

decades out of date.

He coughed a...

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Pimms in the palace gardens

before the concert, sun soaking

the evening crowd, reluctant

to leave their picnics

and champagne for the music.

One half of a famous duo, the one

that arranged the harmonies

but didn’t write the songs.

Great reception, nevertheless.

Patience even when he craved

our indulgence  to read a few

so-so ‘prose poems’. Now in his 70s,

e...

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