Ron Mason
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Time has pulled up a chair, dashed a stinging litre from a jug of wine. My memory is a sluggard. I reject your death, but can't dismiss it. For it was never an occasion for woman sobs and keenings: your stoic-heart would not permit it. And that calcium-covered pump had become a sudden roadblock bringing heavy traffic to a tearing halt. Your granite-words remain. Austere fare, but nonetheless adequate for the honest sustenance they give. And for myself, a challenge. A preoccupation now more intensely felt, to tilt a broken taiaha inexpertly to my old lady, Hine-nui-te-po, bless the old bitch: shrewd guardian of that infrequent duende that you and Lorca knew about, playing hard-to-get. Easy for you now, man. You've joined your literary ancestors, whilst I have problems still in finding mine, lost somewhere in the confusing swirl, now thick now thin, Victoriana-Missionary fog hiding legalised land-rape and gentlemen thugs. Never mind, you've taught me confidence and ease in dredging for my own bedraggled myths, and you bet: weighing the China experience yours and mine. They balance. Your suit has not the right cut for me except around the gut. I'll keep the jacket though: dry-cleaned it'll absorb new armpit sweat. Ad Dorotheum: She and I together found the poem you'd left for her behind a photograph. Lest you be a dead man's slave Place a branch upon the grave Nor allow your terms of grief To extend beyond the fall of its last leaf 'Bloody Ron, making up to me,' she said, quickly. Too quickly. But Time impatient, creaks a chair. And from the Jug I pour sour wine to wash away the only land I own, and that between the toes. A red libation to your good memory, friend. There's Work yet, for the living.
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