Pimms in the palace gardens

before the concert, sun soaking

the evening crowd, reluctant

to leave their picnics

and champagne for the music.

One half of a famous duo, the one

that arranged the harmonies

but didn’t write the songs.

 

Great reception, nevertheless.

Patience even when he craved

our indulgence  to read a few

so-so ‘prose poems’. Now in his 70s,

everyone needs the odd breather

between beloved hits.

And you can understand:

‘Look! I can write, too.’

 

But I shifted uneasily, embarrassed 

by the gap in quality between

the music and the poetry.

A poem about his son, another  

about filming Carnal Knowledge

with Jack Nicholson, and one

about a local politician who had

the temerity to arrive late

 

and then to text, in the front row,

during his performance.

Does music always leave

spoken word in the shade?

Homeward Bound, The Boxer,

Kathy’s Song, April Come She Will.

“And the people bowed and prayed /

To the neon gods they made.”

 

Now that’s poetry. Artie’s wasn’t,

much, and nor is this. But his voice

still lifts the heart, more or less,

most of the time. The rain held off

until he’d gone, when lightning flashed,

thunder crashed, and the ghosts

of Henry and Wolsey

watched us leave the premises,

 

the night before the referendum.