When I heard you’d gone, the rain hushed footsteps and for a moment I thought you’d come asking me to put the kettle on. Coaxing me to walk those hills, talking of authors, their books, our bantering of mutual family and friends. Spring’s dance, your favourite time. Clicking your fingers with a swaggering, sensual gait. In recent years, your uncomplaining stance. Tom, a loving friend, my gypsy man.