You barely get a mention now,

except, explaining why

I haven't fished for years,

there's talk about the friend

I'd haunt the banks

of lakes and rivers with,

who of a sudden died,

and how the incentive went,

as if the fish themselves

swore never to be caught again.

You're like the tackle now,

no longer used, propped in

mute corners with the things

we do not need but can't cast out.

Sometimes I drop in

to see that son of yours

behind the counter of a shop

in Church Street. Each time

he's taller than we could

ever have imagined him.

He just about remembers me,

taking my money, plonking

long-life batteries in a bag,

never saying a word of what it is

that links us. You of course

with that old devious way

of yours would suppose some

conspiratorial jape was on the cards

and think of trumping it.

But it's no joke. There's every

reason in the world for carrying on

without you. Dust falls on things

which have practically forgotten

what vital roles they played

in all our bright entanglements.