Cyril Kelly

Three evenings a week, a fiver a night, in the clifftop marine hotel, Ballybunion.

The bar crammed with cork, city slickers, West Limerick farmers.

condensation on darkening window panes, the tide foaming on the beach below as you soft-pedalled a snatch from a Mozart concerto.

Or when you loud-pedalled your beloved jazz, riffing with Ellington, Fats Waller, Herbie Hancock.

Well after midnight, into early hours, razzmatazz, you were high-octane, relentless, non-stop.

And then I hear how, last month, in palliative care, you played one long rivale of your old defiance.

a retinue of support behind your chair, you settled yourself at the foyer's only honky-tonk piano.

And there, watched in disbelief by daughters, sons and wife, you give a final heroic rendition of Sinatra's That's Life.