When you retired you took up the saxophone
And blew it in a slow, warm-hearted way
That made me wish I too could learn to play
With your quirky, off-beat, kind, melodious tone.
I'll miss the chats we'll now no longer have
Of football, friends, politics, Palestine,
How I'd laugh at your observations,
The way you'd giggle quietly at mine,
With a beer or two amid the conversations.
I loved you for the way you made your own
Your wry, unassuming attitude,
How you were for the many, not the few.
Now you've died, I'll take up the saxophone
And blow it slow, in remembrance of you.