Ah, to write again friends of Godfrey…Late winter, early spring has marked the passage of a fine chap. Gypsy, scholar, goat herd, hippie, part Swedish Chef, part John Wayne. He endured the worlds longest poetry reading on the ass-pinch chairs, across from the guy who spoke only to his teeth, (on a plate by his side with their own sausage roll). And then there was the Shakespeare actor, who performed a great death scene,during Charle’s endless Pantoum, blood and all. He was a friend of “Mrs Cooper”- a friend of Godfrey..
Out in Knockfollie’s Bridge leans Knockfollie’s Town Hall, smells of cabbage and fish suppers, dance wax and Lysol. Two shops, Hotel, the wharf and fish plant, and our Outhouse Museum, on the hill top looking out overall.
“I liked it there”, Godfrey did write, danced kilt a twirl many a warm Saturday night. At the right rear table sat a tall, older man, mirth in his eyes, same battered cap. “May I have this dance Mrs Cooper?, he’d call, and they’d clear a swath across Knockfollie’s Hall.
“I asked of the girls I had met sorting fish”, “who this odd couple be?. Was told, “he is long retired from the sea, she drifted up here as you did from the city”. Jackie and Laura sorted fish to, side by each, working one and the same. They told me, “Cooper” is not either of the old pairs name. Laurie concurred, nor do they imbibe alcohol, back of the hall like the rest of us all. “they drift through life in each others fond company, finding everything funny…
Back of the old dance floor, kids were sacked out on coats, the evening fun winding down. The janitor patiently tapped his broom, as The Coopers headed out last to town. C’mon, Mrs Cooper, he steadied her arm down the steps, she steadied his to, “we’ll make it , Mr Cooper, they would sleep neath the stars- by The Outhouse Museum, where the town cop could not see them.
Red headed Bill sorted fish, she did, said “come morning the cop wakes them up with a prod and coffee”. Then they totter off, arm in arm laughing, quite a hike to their shack by the sea. “Beware of the goats, if you dare to visit, last vagabond did , well the goats ate his knapsack, and basically everything in it”…
Godfrey would talk to anyone, talk of anything but the beet. He could make friends in an empty room, and befriend “The Coopers” did Godfrey, chatted in the shade at The Outhouse Museum, where oft they chanced to meet.
Ever curious, Godfrey ventured off course, found the muddiest route under bramble, neath gorse. Out past Whiffen Spit, a good hike to the reach, and down a fairly steep cliff side to Knockfollie’s Beach. “There, wrote Godfrey, enjoyed a fine Tuesday, heard goats bleating softly, and voices some distance away. “C’mon, Mrs Cooper, the old sailor’s call, half way down the track where it skirted the waterfall. “Okay, Mr Cooper, came her laughter through the fog- “dance me over this last fallen log’.
Miss Ebony Burl was an office girl, she did not sort fish, wear rubber boots or damp, fishy glove. Ebony admired a man in a kilt, strode up to Godfrey quite boldly. “Said, I fancy you may be the man for me, though you dislike beets, and befriend the fish sorter and aged common hippie”.
“That I do, the vagabond wrote, befriended “The Coopers” despite the fact, it was not their name and home was a driftwood shack”. A clever home gleaned from sea smoothed timbers, and with verdant garden of deep goat pellet and kelp. The outhouse was purloined from the museum, lowered down the cliff with a gang of stout fish sorters help.
“Oh dance, Mrs Cooper over Knockfollie’s Bridge, I’ll have table set and ready, be it soft summer night, or winter storm, take my arm, Mr Cooper, strong and steady. The ocean before us will never grow old, as we and the hills will above- all the outside world needs to know- in our passing, our path was simply of love….