To a friend... III was told you wore kilts,
Named yourself after the colour red--
And of course, you ate fire.
You created explosions, and at least twice a year
Set the night-time beach alight.
I spent time disbelieving this until I met you,
And your pyrotechnic personality.
We spoke in depth, put the world to rights,
(And decided not to burn it all down)
Compared books and heartaches.
Scorched by the sun we drank mead
And I hoped I’d made a firm friend.
To a friend...You loved colour--
And unabashedly wore bright purples,
Aqua greens and other garish shades.
You wore top hats,
Curled your moustache,
Donned a zoot-suit
And brought a hearse.
An eccentric collector
Of books, gargoyles and green men.
(not to mention steam-punk trinkets)
Wicked humour, a love of tea,
Fur coats and white boots--
For certain when you were cast,
They shattered the mould-
liberally pouring in charm, roguishness and class,
(with just a dash of a cad and nefariousness) into a human form,
And then left wondering astounded
How so much personality all fitted into one man.