i.m. Martin Cooke (1955-2021)

 

‘Behold the fowls of the air’

Matthew 6:26

 

 

This is the way it happens: a voice on the phone

explaining that one we took for granted

is no longer there, that junk food

and countless pints that wrecked

your balance and strained your heart

became in the end too much –

even at your shuffling pace.

 

Refusing to put a penny aside, so long

as you could buy a drink, your hapless ways

endeared you to all: the ducking and diving

by which you survived, the crazy

pickles you got through.

 

Simply living from day to day,

you always heard what we were saying

but carried on your own way,

sustained by football, films and rock –

your knowledge of trivia

dazzling, your grasp of the past

decisive. In a house

of scholars you were a savant

in a different way. No fixtures,

albums or dates escaped you.

 

We bought our first records together:

I feel free and Paper Sun –

though the only match I've ever attended

was one I took you to.

Before you died you supplied

the details: Reading v Southend Utd,

with your side winning 4-2.

 

So farewell, Martin, at rest now,

surely, amongst the gentlest souls,

who never strove

or sowed dissension,

or stored up wealth in barns.