For Sir Terry Wogan

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Snorkers chomping; tennis balls popping; cones stopping; poisoned dwarf on windswept patio; Abba’s arrival, nurtured my thriving.

A chemist in Great Portland Street, a ‘Hello Terry’ from me,

a glance upwards from where you sought something on a shelf below,

‘Hello’ back with a warm smile.

To now.

Pips on time.

Missing is your grace, and a wit that celebrated our foibles in so many elegant and kindly ways.

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