For John Heath-Stubbs

I hardly see you nowadays

Being down here on the jetty

Out of town. It is not that

I never think of you. You are

Always around here somewhere.

Of course I meet you here in public

In the pages of your Aquarius.

It is not the best place to talk in.

The pages are bugged but we must make

Do with the sword under the lake.

I have been wanting to ask you how

Your guide god, the little owl,

Is behaving, leading you across

The street of hero ghosts going

Home. Then I saw you sitting

In out of the Celtic rain

In a dark pub in Kildare.

You were speaking to a king from the pig

Market whose brazen helmet lay

Beside him. What did you say?

And who will ride with Heath-Stubbs now

Upon the pages of the world.

Sing me your out of fashion. Literature

With courage is a thousand men.

Shall I meet you with Artorius again?

Another time I saw you tacking

Across Oxford Street in a full

Gale of traffic. You were crewed

Adequately by David Wright

And sailed into The Black Horse.

I hardly see you nowadays.

You hardly see me.

Could I clasp your writing hand

On this ridiculous darkening stage.

John, we are almost of an age.