Long-jumping years and rattling through my own tin can speakers
Your voice enters the room
In a tone I could not have imagined
For a man who, I have been told, worked in a library his whole life;
Ignoring beckoning gestures from circles of men
Within whose groups you could not have belonged
Looking like a subdued Eric Morecambe
Perched by your bicycle and a black and white
And-red-bricked wall
Your voice holds the room, and me, in a paternal tone;
Carefully balancing lengthy phrases;
Stubbing them out
With a sufficient pause.
The intonations of your voice, the ones by which I am so surprised,
Create a rise and fall
In your wry observations.
Present in both the gaps and pauses, the introductions and the endings.
Your early stammer is forgotten 
In this London studio
So far from your hometown.

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