Moments
i.m Mark
Montinaro
We
sat easy in the chairs in the parlour
of
Dylan’s old Boathouse home
one
summer Saturday
as
the sea slid dark over the reaching sands below.
We chatted our comfy evening away
talking
poetry, forms and frailties
and
rhythm, assonance and rhyme,
just
Jonathan, you, Dave and me.
And
we met on my winter birthday walk
in
the puddled street beneath the Castle
wall
on
a dreek and windy weekday afternoon;
and
again we chinwagged poetry
while
rain plastered hair to our faces
and
stung our eyes.
Your
words rang out many nights
in
the Cellar Bar, your voice large and full
to
the corners of the blackdowned room.
You
travelled all the way to Aberystwyth
to
support our Rockhopper set on ‘time’,
and
even again we prattled on poetry
and
performance skills over coffee in the Arts Centre bar;
and
at our gig on Spoken Word Saturday
you
were pleased to introduce me to your lovely Mam,
so
proud, you and her, both together.
Now
you are gone, so fast and so soon
and
I listen to poets read their words about you
from
the time-honoured Boathouse steps
and
even more your
mother’s face
shows
her pride in you.
And
over and under all their voices
I
hear oystercatchers keening
and
curlews calling the tide
as
the waters spill over
and
fill the foreshore of this timeless
limitless
bay.
