It never worked for us
But we stayed friends.
We could loan each other money
With trust, a mark of friendship
For both of us, poor and struggling.
He was an actor of minor success,
T.S. Eliot bishops,
Agatha Christie detectives,
Alan Ayckburn,
Always with that rich voice,
Full of expression.
Drunk and phoning late.
That voice made me listen
With pleasure and laughter.
One of the last times
I heard it: shaky
From the hospice bed.
"Whose fault?" he said.
I almost replied
"You smoked too many cigarettes"
Afterwards, I went to the cathedral
To see if prayer would help me.
And remembered my reply.
"Nobody's fault," I said.
The right reply, I thought.
The right reply
To a mis-heard question.
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