John Pitt, in memoriam,

Come gather round,
Sit by me a while,
Let me tell you of a humble man I once knew, With affection in his gleeful smile,
His mischievous grin,
Irreverence that danced behind his childlike eyes, That belied his wise years,
They glinted in impish charm,
Like summers sun in rippled mill ponds, And with witticisms on jovial lips,
But let each of us remember him,
As we all loved him,
But for me in my part I owe a debt,
One that could never be repaid,
By just this one verse,
And the man, from this point of view,
Is remember with fondness,
Making ageing chefs climb trees,
For just the right shot,
Not quite, one more,
He giggles, Click, click, wait, just one more,
You ok? In our laughter,
In concerns of the right shot more than my fragile frame, Don’t fall, one more,
Is that the farmer and his gun?
Quick, jump down,
By Christ let’s run,
Humour and age slowing us to wheezes,
Through Shropshire fields in autumnal rain, Remember him with stories of those he knew,
From around about these middle lands, Here and there,
Would be musicians,
Writers, chefs and his sons so proud,
But, most of all for me,
Winters nights salubriousness,
Shrouded in his studio,
Along the garden path lit only by moons refracted light, And winters icy chill,
Through mists of silver breath,
To the garden shed, His workshop of bowls, guitars and mammoth tusks by day, Optical magic by suns setting, No smoke and mirrors here,
Just cool eyed talent,
And leads this dubiously recovering alcoholic to Penderyn and Mr Jim Beam, If only to keep cold from old bones,
As if horses would have to be lead to water,
Or moths to a flame,
All at once this life’s reject he comforts,
He saw me as I wished to be,
And introduced me to this world as I could be,
He saw me as an equal,
A project,
But most of all a friend,
This bitter old soak accepted by the last true gentleman,
And it is in his art that he will forever live,
A wedding album, Bar mitzvah or Smokey gig,
The menu selection at the Elms,
A book full of dark mediocre poems with stunning pictures,
These images he leaves behind a constant reminder of whom this world has lost, As have we all,
And proves my point once more,
That in death,
The good always finish first, I will be there to join you with a bottle of Jack, But I may be some time, So please, Raise a glass, In memoriam, To the one, And only, Mr John Pitt.

This is simply a tribute to a good friend who sadly passed away a few years ago. I had met him first at my mates wedding, John Pitt was the photographer, as best-man I had plenty of contact with him that day, he was a good laugh. I then met him many years later with a divorce under my belt, at the christening of the same friends child, I didn’t really have much contact with him that day, but we had a chat. I then started working at a hotel walking distance from his house, and he always seemed to be popping in, taking food photographs, attending weddings with his camera, or just to eat.

We always looked after this man, and he never forgot a kindness, when I received the deal to publish my book “Screaming’s from a maddening mind”

He was the man I spoke to about pictures for the book and he did not let me down, they were all fantastic pictures, I would sit beside him as he touched the pictures up on photoshop, he was a wizard. We would do the pictures in his spare time so it took a few months to get them all done, and each session he would berate, in jest, as I would have added to my tattoo collection, and it messed up the continuity. It was sad to lose him, but I am certain he is well remembered.


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