A national treasure is how we knew him,
Immortalised in quiz shows and commentary,
Our comforter of the airwaves,
A twinkle-eyed rogue whose Limerick brogue
Danced across the land from Western House.
But the Reaper is busy, despatching
Those who never crossed our minds as mortal:
Lemmy, Bowie and Rickman;
Then in their shadow:
Frey, Griffin and Finlay;
And suddenly the news that Violier is gone,
To prepare a banquet, no doubt, in
Heaven or in Hell, for old rockers and actors
And Wogan, too, perhaps, the West Briton
Whose conflicted loyalties caused eyes to roll
Amongst a restless Belfast youth
Who didn't accept that it was only music.
January 2016
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Fragments And Reflections
PoetryPoems looking at everything and anything not in my other collections. Here you'll find life and time, wild oceans and lonely coast paths, busy streets and empty hotel rooms, wild concerts and late night writing. All just fragments and reflections, l...
