We never saw eye to eye,
you and I.
Me with my growth spurts
and eclipse of hair,
you with high-buttoned shirts,
cravat-ensnared.
We took turns to overlook each other.

Like your birthday on Valentine's:
I, aged nine,
ate with open flies.
You mocked until I begged you cease.
You told me boys don't cry,
but smile and grit their teeth.
Callous, Clements, but I've ground on since.

And ten years on, your white flag
got snagged,
when your lesson on how to heat
one's whisky in one's crotch
landed you at Matron's feet,
and I revelled as I watched.
Maybe we should have been friends.

There's a lot of you in me,
D.V.C.
but a pinch of salt for each trait.
So let's bury the hatchet where you died
and let's put it down to fate
that I wasn't by your side,

with a handful of earth.