Pockets. I loved him for his fire the way he was, his pockets: matches, a handkerchief, a pen, two penknives, a golfball and some string, pliers, a pingway sleeper, a thrush's wing-feather... and five tomatoes. Two gold lions chained his thick black cloak, his sneezes loud enough to wake a hibernating Horace (Horace was a bear). His old Meccano mill turned magically by the stream. Push-button lights in his doll's-house turn-on-able and off-able. In robes of green and gold – or christening white his crook'd arm made a human crib. He trickled water, giant hand soft-touching the newborn's brow. Smiling eyes lighting on eyes. I loved him for his fire the way he was the way he loved.