Thinking of Kevin:

The memory I often have

is a babble of voices and a rickety table,

the cafe could be any café,

the place, knowing you were there,

somewhere that served good coffee.

You a conjuror on canvas, wood and with paper

would find cardboard (a coaster?)

from somewhere, fold it precisely

in those hands that could, slide it

to erase the wobble before we ordered.

We could sip the day away

like two wooden birds on the back rest

of the carefully driven car

dipping again and again their beaks

into the coloured water glass.

The sky would change colour,

we would watch it

as if before us was your palette

with the white ready to change everything

weak and strong simultaneously.

How could either of us know

the traitorous blood within

carried the thing that would undermine you?

How could we see that the hint

was when you went off your food?

The will of the world is ironic –

how else to explain

one of your grace and humour

would succumb in the stomach,

the tail in the mouth to form the cycle.