If not for Maaike, we would never have met that day

where the Animals flopped and cursed their lot

in the aftermath of an afternoon ripping to shreds

the carcass of an old, unloved and despicable novel,

its spine cello taped and flea encrusted as much as the search

for it exhausted us all.

If not for Maaike, the genuine affection found in my first loved

band and in yours also would never have been shared

on a broken bed, caused by several Animals

pretending they were once more young cubs and by our hostess

for the night being so serene, the door locked, unpicked

by my left buttock cheek and we were left to talk of the ones

who had been instrumental in writing about a party.

 

If not for Maaike, our paths may never have crossed

and you would never have become the friend

I hold dear today,

separated out as it were by the English Channel,

but joined at the hip in appreciation of the world of the Progressive

and in an unspoken bond that would remain

long after the books were treated to the ceremony and ritual

of being returned, the cello tape keeping our spines rigid

and inflexible.

 

A walk in the park before meeting Clare for lunch,

thank you Maaike for bringing us together,

two lost souls guided by the key of H.

 

For Elke Maasbommel.

Ian D. Hall 2015