We met on VJ night. Supposedly
Celebrating victory. The cloud over Hiroshima
Cast turbid reflections in the beer.
We have walked in that shadow ever since.

The years pass. The time-gap between us
Somehow furnishes the illusion
That it gets smaller. The pedantic youth you took in hand,
Slashing pomposities, is now grown into -
Hardly Achilles, but a running man,
Who's always about to catch you by the tail.
He doesn't succeed. And I will call you
A phoenix, not a tortoise.

The Moira extend your thread. Continue,
George, to instruct and delight,
Exasperate, excruciate. In the centre of each poem,
Among the smoking cinders, lies
A new-hatched Dionysian deity, imprudently
Wobbling his thyrsus.

Meanwhile the world grinds on,
Grudging, indifferent. I see you lift
(My God, a dog) a sinister leg against
The off-side rear wheel of Juggernaut.