By Phil Carradice(from Issue 14)
We all knew Willie Brinn;
a constant in our lives,
yodelling his way along the road
or swaggering a tuneless whistle
across the hill. This idiot boy
who squatted at the top end of our street
where town and country met,
easy in either environment.
We pitied him, his childish ways,
prodding at the cowpats with a stick,
roaring his demented ditties to the stars.
We pointed, laughed behind our hands.
Willie smiled and whistled on, rolling
like a schooner, out of view.
Not for him our worries
about Castro and the Bay of Pigs,
the Cold War tensions that might
some day blow into a hurricane
of whirlwind terror.
Frank Ifield's latest hit
was more the fare
of Willie's addled brain.
And so we worried; Willie sang
"The Wayward Wind" or "I Remember You,"
as happy as the day was long.
Oh yes, we all knew Willie Brinn.
But only now, with hindsight,
can we admit how much
we envied him.