Best of Mates

February is over - in the orchard after midnight,
muffled up against the cold, whiskey on the table,
head back, staring skywards-
I raise a glass to him- two months dead now-

The grass white, crunchy as sugar,
His ghost, moth quiet,
Steps out of nowhere and is beside me.

Blue shirt open at neck, fawn slacks, sandals-
No coat needed against this worldly frost,
He smiles, takes a chair opposite-

Falls through it, grimaces, nods OK, tries again.
Not used to this being dead stuff, he says,
Sits finally, breath smelling of ice and apples-

Underfoot, violets turn mauve in the moonlight,
Tendrils of river mist drift through him.
Somewhere an owl takes out its oboe.

I pour him one ghost glass after another-
We down the bottle – who cares if we get smashed now?
Celia is up in London- can’t see us.

The stars are bubbling away nicely, he says.
It’s Gods soup, spilt out across the heavens, I reply.
We exchange banter, his ghost and I; best of mates still.

For Adrian Mitchell

BP