The obituary notice of James (Jimmy) SKIDMORE

Little G,
the brightest star on the stage,
and now promoted to the sky.

The gentlest man,
quiet as a shadow until suddenly
 the whole room was laughing,
usually at something slightly inappropriate,
and timed to absolute perfection.

You taught us to swim
 and filled the school bus with songs
 no one had rehearsed for,
 breaking into we’re off in a motor car.

And those roller skates of yours 
I know will have carried you
 right up to the pearly gates.

There was the harmonica too,
appearing from nowhere
 on damp campsites,
your notes bending the night
until we were all singing along.

You jumped at dog sitting Archie,
 fed him only custard lids 
absolutely nothing else,
 you promised
 until the missing milk
 from your Crunchy Nut 
told a different story.

We’ll keep watching now
 for the mole
 in that unfortunate corner
 of Helen’s garden,
 half expecting it to pop up
 with your timing,
 your grin,
 and a comment best left unsaid.

I’ll always hear you 
answering the phone as
“Master of the house,”
singing happily into the gaps 
while the operator tried, again
 to connect me to Big G,
clearly enjoying the delay,
 the audience of one,
 and every extra second
 of song.

The stage feels quieter now,
but knowing you,
 you’ve just found
 a bigger audience still singing,
 still joking,
 still gently there, 
filling every space 
by pretending not to try.