Happy birthday Paul Squires.

I see you. Don’t think you’re beyond seeing, old man, high up there in the larch, swinging your legs and whistling and throwing larch cones at the pretty girls who walk underneath, grinning like a cheshire cat.
I see you.
I hear you, Squires, laughing softly as you stir up a storm in a virtual teacup, as endless and looping as those very concentric circles that you went on and on about, looping and endless. All for fun yet so serious.
Your time machine stands in the corner. Someone has filled it with boxes left over from a jumble sale and wrapped it in christmas lights. We’ll sort through it one day when it’s rainy and we’re bored.
I know you know we loved you, pain in the arse that you could be, linking arms tonight and drunkenly swaying to a strange sort of Auld Lang Syne of Happy slurring purriness, bouncing about in black and orange stripes and doing a crap rendition of the hokey-kokey.
I smell you, uncle, sea salt and cigarettes swirling quietly around the bookcases while I type, mingling with every word~ urging me on.
That piano, the one with the famous musicians, the one where we all took a turn and sang and danced and that duck, that poor, strangely placed duck. I’m laughing now, properly laughing.
Yeah,
all those things.
Cheers.

~ by Beeskiffle on November 19, 2010.