Last one: Dyane When I saw you just now (or a nearly-you) by the tired docks at Dover, topless and no older, sure as Moreau, cool as Delon, bouncier than a DS, unrecognising, oblivious and heading home, I remembered. In our way we loved you roughly one millionth as much as the child we had right after you died, one thousandth as much as we loved each other, and we mock-pitied the poodle-eager, baby-red sheet of metal you once were, the thin tin slab beaten with a tired hammer by some reluctant Parisian Thor drunk, no doubt, on the blissful clichés of croissants and Gitanes and a so-so bottle of Chablis like the one we once stole from a restaurant on the Champs Elysées. We endured trials and errors and curses trying to wake you on hungover work mornings, settled, finally, on heaping patience and love on you, on the gentle kissing of two naked wires and on faith and prayer before we sent you on your way having agreed to disagree. Three hundred miles you carried us from the wire and song of Belfast and the dash and hope of Galway, to the dolphined strands of Kerry until the vengeful November night you finally blew your top, torn brown canvas flapping back down the N17, the old royal winds blowing through our words and our distances, sudden and final, like the discovery of two lies, like an unveiling of truth.
Posted on: Thu, 13 Mar 2014 07:00:44 +0000
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