The bench is empty down by the canal
where two old men would sit three years ago
one thin, with rather straggly hair, a pipe,
one plump, who kept his tartan hat pulled down.
They sat there, mostly quiet, side by side
all Spring and Summer, and on drier days
throughout the turning year. I'd see them out
and mark it as a sign that Spring had come.
After the birds, and with the willow leaves,
before the brown fluff ducklings or the sun,
the two old men emerging on their bench.
I used to nod hello, and smile at them,
while passing on my short cut home from town.
And they would nod and smile hello at me
and at my son, who they watched change and grow
in pram, then toddling on swaying feet
then running past; we never stopped or spoke.
And then one day, one man alone. I paused.
He looked so sad, so desolate, bereft
like one old shoe, or half a broken set.
"Your friend?" I asked, "He's dead," he said. "His name
was Alf. Names are important. Mine," he said
while tears slid, unnoticed, down his nose,
"My name is Bernie. No one stops or cares.
When you get old, and ill, and die, that's it.
They don't remember, they don't come or call.
I loved him, and he's gone, and I'm so sad."
He sniffed, and blew his nose, and I sat down,
told him my name, and talked a while with him
of what they'd shared, in all the years gone by
and how good Alf was to his wife and kids
all grown and gone, spread out across the world,
and how they'd worked together in the mill
that stood right here, until they pulled it down.
So after that I always said hello,
and paused a while, we shared some words each time,
while my son leapt and jumped and ran ahead.
We never met elsewhere, or talked again
with that intensity, or ever touched
on Bernie's life alone, after that day.
Then once, he very shyly called to me
and said he'd hoped that I'd be going by,
he had a present, which he thought I'd like.
And gave me, wrapped in paper, a whole duck.
All plucked and cleaned for sure, but rather small
and rather like the ducks that swam and flew
and ate the children's bread, on the canal.
I thanked him, rather puzzled, took it home
and made duck soup, delicious, but the time
he offered me another, I sat down
and asked him where on earth he'd got them from.
Bernie grinned shyly, flash of plastic teeth.
"Why, right from here," he said, and told me how
he trapped them, (though he would not do in Spring)
and cooked them for himself, and, once, for Alf.
"They make a pleasant change to eat," he said,
"and not like they'll run short. There's lots of ducks."
I boggled for a while, and Bernie laughed
and pressed the duck on me, and somehow there
I found that I'd agreed to take the bird,
without offense, or saying it was wrong
to steal and eat these ducks, for they were free,
were purple headed mallards, who could fly
and had fair chances to escape his snares.
Bernie was proud to know he had the skill
to hunt for table by his own resource
though he was old, and it delighted him
to share his spoils, and give a duck to me.
Then, without warning, one day he was gone.
The bench was empty. I sat down alone.
The sun was out, at mid-day, fourteenth June,
and Bernie sat here every day, all day
unless the rain was bad. I feared the worst,
but knew no way to know. I sat and thought
of him, of Alf, the fragments of his life,
and how his daughter lived in Calgary,
and sent him pale blue letters twice a year.
I wondered if I'd ever sit alone
upon a bench, with memories unshared
then realised, as ducks whirred up and flew
I did that even now. It is not sad
to live, and die, remembered. For his wake
I bought and roasted whole a big farm-duck
and asked my friends to come, and share good food,
and raise in joy a toast to Bernie's name.
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