Mark Whitworth 1958-2021

Who grows young again through time?
See, through bitter ice become drip-clear  
melting from a forget-me-not that waits there.
Sustained as a long-held blue note
through out-of-sight jazz testimony.

I have in mind one
to rival Steve McQueen in "The Great Escape"
-gunning his motorbike up a grassy hillside.
One most fluent in music, our most expressive language.
It's not everyone who can control their glissando,
I'll add not everyone who can drink like a fish.
Playing in bars, quick time 
he had the skills and then some.

I have in mind one growing younger by time
whose motorbike runs backwards down the hill
whose glass fills through a summer afternoon.
A pilgrim who found bliss 
in the shimmering notes of his Fender.
An explorer who came to treasure both 
the whammy-bar work-outs of Jimi Hendrix
and the muscular technique of Spanish guitar
maestros he strove to emulate.

A musician's passion makes the world
great by lamplight, small again by cool dawn.
Some walk this world in exile
until they call once more
"let's get this party started!"
let's take that as a motto for our brother,
dear friend, the good-time man
who grows young again in our time.
See, through bitter ice become drip-clear  
melting from a forget-me-not blooming near.
Complete as a long-held blue note
from out-of-sight jazz testimony,
his glass is forever half full.
Cheers Mark.