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
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Author: aprettykettleofpoetry
