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James

Ian woke one day, looked in the

bathroom mirror and saw a man who, staring

at him, said ‘I am Bond, James Bond and who are you ?’.

 

James had beaten Ian to the shower,

svelte, suited, Stonehenge eyes (I’ll see you out)

James had a soul forged in Ironbridge.

 

James commandeered the suspect bathroom,

Ian’s drowned soap, limp towels,

James had his Burberry bathrobe,

 

a man bag on the shelf proclaimed

Aspinal (of course),’Extreme’ Men’s Perfume

harbingered Paul Smith.

 

James stayed around, a casual lodger,

savage shift work, time zones a joke, and

always on his suits the intrigue of gun smoke.

 

Ian got old, as James got younger,

Dorian in reverse, Ian wrote him into legend,

then, subsumed by James, Ian died.

 

Dear James, the world adores him,

demands ever fitter, techier protectors of this

sceptred isle for fearless feats, in bed and out

 

with glam warrior women, theme songs,

the Aston, Rolex, the snappy links and cuff,

this Planet James surely, is enough.

 

But James knows his darker side, his cruel streak,

the spy that slays the jabberwock he hides him

under icon-cool, but icons don’t do meek.

 

After 3 martinis James is shaken and a little stirred,

but rises again, the tricky surface gentleman,

red roses delivered with a Walther P99

 

 

 

Liz Callingham