I have reached the age in which the first man who made me laugh out loud,

who gave blood, sweat and tears in an effort to defy the wind,

and who by the time I was 14, could quote line for line

in an effort to be allowed to study drama at school,

decided enough was enough,

and wrote, “Things just seemed to go wrong too many times.”,

and took the next boat out to the onward great adventure.

 

I have reached the age in which twin greats to music were lost

and the world never got to witness what

Billie Holiday and the wonderful Marvin Gaye thought of growing old

in an America that lurched ever backwards from gun control

and that strange fruit would take ever greater resonance.

Strange fruit, being born to the sounds of England winning the Ashes

and a love of cricket installed and reinvigorated by my best friend’s dad

as he told me that Botham was taking Australia apart.

Strange fruit indeed that reduced me to being the last man out

in the only cricket match I played in as those with points to prove

bumped themselves up the list and I still scored a decent four

from a teacher who never forgave me for not liking rugby …strange fruit.

 

How should you feel about reaching an age in which you are not relevant,

in which to ask, “What’s going on?” is more of theme tune to your life

as you realise that all you have done, all the great stories

and accomplishments you can relate with ever growing smile and with

sentimental  glee, means absolutely nothing in the end…strange fruit.

 

At forty four my earliest celebrity hero died, he took his life

down a one way street after realising that life is just not funny anymore

and Billie, the wonderful mother of majestic truth,

just decided that drugs and drink

were the answer to being strange, old fruit and in which

a man who makes into the best 100 albums of all time,

was shot dead by the one man who could destroy him…

…very strange indeed.

 

We are all strange fruits in the end,

consumed in equal order, consumed and being consumed;

eaten away unless left to rot on the supermarket shelf,

the bar code indelibly stamped and hidden away

under orders and under cloth.

 

I have reached the age…

 

Ian D. Hall 2015.