Brendan, a surprise encounter

a shock bumping into O’Byrne

this morning at the Co-op 

unloading a basket of freesias,

Parma violets, Müller yogurts,

tinned prunes, custard, and tomato soup

at the checkout

 

I expected him ‘long dead of the fags’

sixty a day was his target and

he usually met it comfortably

 

I queued behind while he fumbled to pay,

 

‘come on, old bastard, we ain’t got all day’

 

but we have got all day...

we have all day... every day 

we have all the time in the world

until, at last, the world whimpers away 

 

O’Byrne’s an artist, says he’s outsold Van Gogh.

his hands are shaky, and his sight’s getting worse,

 

I suggested a style make-over,

‘there's always Impressionism, mon vieux’           

               

his mouth laughed but not his wistful eyes,

he seemed, to me, lost, in a gallery

of dead people's faces, old places

memories

 

we sat drinking Guinness

(always my round)

at first he spoke with duende -

of art, books, and poetry,

but three pints in

reverted to brief encounters;

lovers relished, ravished,

endured, invented, survived

 

and skirted our history of fallings-out,

loud melees in pubs and parties –

drunken brawls over joint obsessions:

women, girl friends,

women, spilled beer,

women, film,

women, politics

women and sex

 

(I bent his nose once - he blacked my eyes)

 

I finished my pint,

‘that's it for me, I'm out of dough' 

 

‘feck that, Segotia, the session's just starting,

what about I do some busking?

keep a close eye on me shopping’

 

he stood outside

in a sudden shower,

singing, with sparkling eyes,

Mo Ghile Mear in McCormack tenor

watching his ethnic hat

(white poppy attached) filling

with silver and with rain

 

‘we've plenty for a dhrop or two

what would you say to Tullamore Dew?’

‘I'd say, I don’t mind if I do’

‘Cemetery Road?'

‘lead on, old toad’

 

 

Image: McSorley's Bar (John Sloan) Wikimedia Commons

https://images.app.goo.gl/rJb5VccrFBgEzZg98