A Poem For Jim

One year ago today I lamented to myself

that I should have got to know you better,

and always pictured you with the 1990s ‘tash

long after you changed your style to sport a smart goatee,

regretted that I never had the courage to ask

if we could sometime play guitar together,

only got to see you play live once

when ye filled Na Piarsaigh’s clubhouse

with music and song that freely flowed,

nary a hint of any stumble or pause.

The longest chat we ever had

was in the peace of Milford’s smoking room,

after you’d given me a sneak preview

of what proved to be your farewell poem,

at that stage the damage was already done,

no sense in giving up the simple pleasure

of a smoke when the show was nearly over,

and we were just two men shooting the breeze,

finally beyond the timid nephew/uncle routine,

comfortable sharing wisdom and jokes and stories.

And I was just one lad, just one more visitor

in a line that seemed to have no end.

I heard that half the country took the time

to wish you well, lucky to have the chance to say goodbye,

not knowing that Bottler himself would soon go the same way,

a matter of weeks after tickets sold out

and the hallowed shadows of Thomond Park

milled with friends as close as family, voices joined in chorus

to show their grá for a friend, a husband, a father and uncle,
the loveable rogue and rebel balladeer.