Godfrey was seen by some as “odd” over money. Needing only enough to get him by, he never shunned work, yet was never bound to supererogation. He enjoyed a full cornucopia of jobs, but considered meeting people his true calling.He oft found a comfy spot, to set out a sign. “GODFREY”- “I will write a poem for anyone, will write of anything but Beets”. Unrepentant loathing of beets aside, he indeed wrote many a poem for donation. He even wrote poetry for the cops when they moved him along. And though Godfrey “Fehd” and fidgeted, when on our walks I paused to look in a shoe shop window, I was touched to find this thoughtful tribute to shoes in one of his city journals. “I do consider shoes,” he once assured me.
Well my good old friend up Australia way, got himself new shoes, to carry him down river, ramble over steep tracks to the sea. Oh, the places that inspire the poems he sends me. It’s been too many long years since we tramped together. They are ruggedy “Blundies” for Tasmanian weather.
Down in Berkshire, out on the wild Common, in shiny new gumboots, still walks the Peace Woman.She will sleep out tonight, neath the stars on damp heather. As we did long ago, when last we were together.
My city friend wrote me the other day, wrote of new handmade shoes. “Posh shoes”, she wrote, of soft, Red Pomegranate leather. I picture her in summer, in outdoor cafe’s….happy thoughts, for Ive’ known her forever, wistful to, as it has been far too long since we laughed together….