As random as a random turn and heading for a fate I sealed it in an envelope and second class did wait. And when it came I opened it and whispered out aloud. Well well well and well, said I well well well and well then thundered out some lightening and puffed a big grey cloud.
Higher than a drama high and playing down to low I didn’t say goodbye at all but said a sad hello. And when my bucket hit rock bottom I pulled it out my well. Well well well and well, said I well well well and well then laced my drink to let me drowse until asleep I fell.
As wondrous as a rainy bow I didn’t seem to mind and tied a knot with string to spare and read a message signed. And when a diggy dog did dig a treasure trove was there. Well well well and well, said I Well well well and well then stopped a stopwatch on its way which didn’t seem to care.
So, shredded as an ageing fleur and crumbly as a cemetery I asked if anybody here could die of immortality? And how I gasped when then up-popped a real talking rabbit: Well well well and well, said rabbit well well well and well but if you find whatever it is hide it quick as well.
The language of love is open to anyone with soul and anyone aiming at a foreign language can add it as a string to their bow but what I’m getting at, and if you haven’t worked it out yet you’re pretty slow, is do you understand ‘Catian’, or ‘Miaowese’, or what a cat wants you to know?
Centuries and centuries of feline utterances have had their cat owners and cat lovers hazarding their guesses. Now, I’m not talking about ‘Catish’ for ‘Catsolute beginners’ like hissing or growling: anyone can tell something’s not right in Denmark or anywhere else for that matter. No, that’s easy-peasy and there are no prize-winners. I’m talking about those noises a furry friend will use to get through to a human ally in the few waking hours between a catnap snooze.
A miaow, like our voices, can differ in pitch and length. and, depending on whether you’re taking any notice, (and shame on you if you’re not), in insistence and strength. Let me elaborate which won’t take a minute: I promise you that, if you’re with your cat right now, he or she will get your full attention back in a bit.
First, there’s the relaxed, short, high-pitched miaow which basically translated into human means “How’s it going?’, “Good morning” or “Hello.” If a bit longer and slightly higher in tone you’d better get ready cos your cat wants something and won’t leave you alone. It’s your job to know what: like any language, it’s not just about connotation but also good relations and if misunderstandings occur, they can lead to moggy machinations. The one to get, whether a novice or an authority, is the longer, drawn-out miaow which means “Food” and “Make it snappy!”
Now, I won’t go on ‘cos I’ve already taken too long. Needless to say, there are those of you with some kind of ‘cat karma’ and you’re used to being woken up with your cat in your face checking out whether you’re still breathing or not in a ‘whiskerama’, so, you’ll know that no cat has the same miaow and that yours is unique. Mine too, so you’ll forgive me if I say “Catch you later” cos it’s 7 o’clock, and I’m guessing he’s just said “Tuna fish time” in Cat speak.
Some moonwalk backwards past. Some slow-motion steer. Some upwards beanstalk mast. Some downhill rabbit hole disappear.
Some hand in hand. Some distant one-man elastic band. Some three-legged race. Some astronaut-float through space.
Some in 14th century rags. Some in 1789 attire. Some in birthday suit bags. Some with hair on fire.
Meanwhile as I sit and sip, the rusty wind-up toy cafe box spins. Teacup saucer tables on springs: me with magic roundabout zebedee eyes watching dougal-walking brians, florences and dylans greeting goodbyes
Seagulls screech overhead understating the depths below. Fleeting bubble meetings that burst and go.
Spirit buzz energising the soul. Sat with the salt of the earth by the sea on deckchairs with the old laughing their heads off at how time flew since get-together births.
If you feel like not bothering a cigarette will give you a chance to walk away. I’m off for a fag getaway but if you really care, no excuses will mean you’ll be able to stay.
Chaotic cars drive themselves in car parks. Everything is out of control and depends on the last lyric you listened to like ‘but you blew my mind.’ I can’t thank you enough for telling me something I never knew.
My voice chords have taken a vow of silence. My mouth moves. My tongue hits my teeth. Lack of sound makes sense. My lips look like a red wreath.
Too much enthusiasm doesn’t seem to work. Too much keeping distance leaves me bereft. I sit waiting for someone to make me talk. In the meantime, my neck turns left to right and right to left.
Speaking after the service to the Uffculme gravedigger filling in the grave, he came out with some choice Devon that would have pleased Dave. Like’em say; them with lots of friends die young! 200 or so I counted, and all there for one.
The bells rang out at St Mary’s at the end, after Dun Ringill by Tull. Bells that that mischievous buyy (pulling the other one) often would literally pull. Catching the bus back to Exeter with postmarked post I’d sent long ago, beloved Devonia, with its herds and hills, was on a roll.
28 year gone since it would begin with Bill and that Friday pint and pasty lunchtime break at The Bridge Inn. You, always a half cider at most, while me on that infamous occasion (bolloxed) having got to It’s not fair! back from The Double Locks.
Then there was your pride and joy Barclay which you worked on meticulously only for it to break down at the wrong moment unfailingly. Your old leather jacket and more reliable Moto Guzzi. Whether the engine was running or not, our vintage joke was I never knew your age exactly.
Musically, (apart from our mutual Who worship), we dueled with compilations designed to educate. Your greatest victories were Jethro and The Moody Blues. Mine Morrissey, though (for your begrudging acknowledgement) you made me wait! In recent years, you sent DVDs and gave me a proper job hard disk portable drive to use.
Last time, last December we met as usual at Waterstones, Cathedral Green. After a bit of dithering about going somewhere different, we went on to Topsham and The Passage Inn. You, holding up your cup, and with an impish smile, milking the fact I said it wasn’t the done thing in Italy to drink a cappuccino with your main meal!
Lots more to mention like my printing offset litho disaster when, with ink flying off onto the Vincent Thompson carpet (a stain that would never disappear!) you came to my rescue. Or the (not so many?!) times you covered for me arriving late for work, worse for wear. Or our laughing at Bill’s legendary assertion that before I met you all, I had no character.
So, yes, please all rise, and hats off to The Mighty Trist, as he takes a bow in all his fine family crest pageantry. Well, me old bugger, you’m gone and done it now. You b’aint be coming back, will he?
In memory of Dave (David Anthony Trist 1954-2015) This poem written 26/5/2015
A Pretty Kettle of Poetry 