“your death is like our friendship beginning over”
Derek Walcott
you would love Patrick St Eloi, his
sweet zouk swing, St Eloi, gone
like you, beyond long nights with Alwin and friends, loud laughs, Marley,
you would love Patrick’s “annou palé peace and love”, gone—
that gloomy very cold January morning in my Babonneau hills
had pushed chilly premonitions under the skin,
and you would have understood, if I had called you,
me uneasy wondering who was passing—
and Mackie, I got your note on Facebook,
grainy b&w, old familiar photo, eyes direct as ever,
you told me, you told me, friend—and am here, late night,
St Eloi on the CD player,
trying to recall, to recollect
more than lost, vague memories.