© Gregory North

Winner, 2010 Silver Brumby Award, Man From Snowy River Festival, Corryong Victoria.

Today I met your handsome son,
    an image of perfection.
He wore your features – every one –
aglow beneath the midday sun,
    your miniature reflection.

But as we met, he turned away;
    my friendship seemed rejected.
“He’s just like you,” I thought today,
as I recalled to my dismay,
    we’re also ‘disconnected’.

We used to be the best of mates;
    we did so much together,
absconding through the school yard gates,
or hiking, lugging heavy weights
    in any kind of weather.

We carved out roads for Matchbox cars
    in musty veggie patches;
we camped beneath the shining stars,
played games from which I still have scars –
    boys shouldn’t play with matches!

We always tried to do our best
    in friendly competition,
as if we both were on a quest.
I think that we were somehow blessed
    to have such strong ambition.

Today I heard you make a speech.
    With pride my eyes were glistening.
With all your skills you seemed to reach
and touch the heart and soul of each
    and every person listening.

You’ve grown to be a family man
    who’s trusted and respected.
Your life’s according to your plan,
which makes me think, “Is there a ban
    on me, that I’ve detected?”

I tried to visit once or twice,
    my strike-rate kept on falling.
Although she never was precise,
your spouse’s greetings felt like ice,
    so then, I just stopped calling.

I thought that you might send a note,
    or somehow get in contact.
But as the months all seemed to float,
the chance of that seemed more remote.
    Did I break friendship’s contract?

Today, I saw you standing brave.
     My aching heart beat loudly.
I thought of what your father gave,
as dirt was scattered in his grave.
    He must have looked on proudly.

I called to mind the secret nips
    we sampled from his liquor
(especially those early sips
that passed our pursing teenage lips
    and made our eyelids flicker).

I felt ashamed I didn’t know
    about your dad’s condition.
I’d met your mum with him in tow,
but still it came as quite a blow
    to hear of his attrition.

Today I shook your hand again.
    Your eyes were somehow dimmer
than in the days when we were ten –
your eyes were full of sparkle then,
    and held a welcome glimmer.

I wondered how we’d changed so much
    that now we’re just ‘acquainted’.
You’ve never said the words, as such,
but still, I felt it in your touch –
    our friendship has been tainted.

Now, was it something that I said?
    Did I commit some treason?
I’ve run the scenes inside my head,
but haven’t picked up any thread,
    so what could be the reason?

Today I didn’t share my pain;
    I knew that yours was greater.
I’m hoping that my face showed plain
that we could still be friends again,
    catch up a little later.

The next time that I meet your son,
    extending salutation,
I hope he’s not as quick to shun,
rejecting, like his dad has done,
    my humble admiration.

Till then I’ll keep my hopes at bay
    recalling past affections,
accept that some things must decay,
including heart aches felt today,
    and childhood recollections.

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