You stood tall
trousers' ending just above
your ankles;
long limbed, you were, 
from school boy's
putting on
into manhood's 
seeming self-assurance.
I liked you reticence,
your quiet smile,
your facility with languages,
101% in a Latin exam.
We both read in the Victorian
reference library - spared by the Luftwaffe,
condemned by the civic progressives,
soon to be replaced
by a concrete monstrosity.
I was there  because of overcrowding at home
you, for respite from your Ma's
life-long  interrogation.
Late winter afternoons
with the local tramps
in for the heat of the library
and a read of the paper.
Now as we approach your 74th
birthday the shock and awe
of your suicide mingles
with kinder, but far more hurtful, memories
of shared times
and our few happy coincidences.
Hey Chris. 

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