To a mechanic dying young

A cycle, Triumph Bonneville,
Its throttle full up old Lords Hill.
The rider leans with n’er a skid
A dimpled grin beneath his lid.

Kiwi-bred so hell to leather
Clad instead in maroon sweater.
Yet softly spoken, quite the catch
The cutest biker on the patch.

Hayley won; his first true queen
The woolly shared, passed in between.
Made her look slim, him look plumper
That threadbare, smelly, oily jumper.

Green King brewed our favourite bitter
Made men fat but women fitter.
The Sow and Pigs our stomping ground
A pound would buy a handsome round.

At closing time which oft’ was late
We’d all go home with our best mate
And drink and dance with party Dave
A scene that gave birth to the rave.

But now he’s dead the party’s run
And all that’s left are memories fun
Of crazy plans and half built-cars
With nuts and bolts in Kilner jars.

Yet flows the electricity
Of his mad eccentricity
The tilting windmills of the mind
On hill and leet and stream you’ll find.

And round that water wheel splash
His ashes spread where fishes flash
Bright sparks that arc from mill to sea
On the cycle of eternity.

It’s tricky writing a poem for a late mate. Have you done them justice? Have you captured their essence? Might you unintentionally have offended family and friends who knew a different version of the same person? I hope I’ve managed the first two and not the last. I should add that fans of A E Housman may recognise the structure which follows closely that of to an athlete dying young aka XIX from A Shropshire Lad.