He told me he'd published a new book of his poetry.
It was 2017.
We were queuing at Ye Olde Greengrocer, a day when Jeanette was at the checkout and treated us customers like family - she didn't miss a trick - (note: I'm sure Jeanette knows loads of Launceston's secrets.)
I knew he'd been crook. His voice was slowly recovering after surgery for cancer.
We did a poetry deal. $20. He would drop his new book with Jeanette. I'd collect the next week.
Jeanette nodded.
Philosophical. Tim Thorne carried the dignity of the worldly and philosophical.
Thirty years ago, and I can still picture him holding the crowd in the ugly, green-coloured side room of the Hotel Tasmania for Launceston's Poetry Cup.
Book in one hand, palms up, reading, holding us all.
I was living the dream. I'd found the heart of life, beating on an island at the bottom of the world.
The cup evolved into a festival and through hard work and mutual respect, Tim drew a long list of fellow, acclaimed poets to Tasmania.
My heart is weeping for Stephanie, Lucie and Claire, left with his words but no more his languid elegance and gentility.
Tim (and Stephanie) have been constants of my Launceston life.
They were among the very first people I met ... not cosy close, but reassuringly present.
There are people who hold us up - the pillars - Tim and Stephanie have been my pillars, along with the late Mary O'Byrne and former editor of this newspaper, Rod and Marguerite Scott.
At Jimmy's supermarket ... every Saturday ... Tim's green Camry parked near ours. Long conversations about the warp and weft of words in Launceston.
Thirty years ago, we talked about the magnificence of this newspaper for nurturing writers.
His absolute delight at being published in the Review pages of The Australian.
Tim showed a depth of kindness by just being. His type of pure kindness is rare.
The random joy of spotting him with Stephanie at live music ... these past years, a couple of times at Delamere Vineyard. Emails and flyers. Concerts. Daughter, Lucie her dad's body and poise, on stage with Tex Perkins at The Oak.
There are some people who you wish could live forever because they house your hope of a finer world.
Through Tim I saw the kind of Tasmanian I wanted to become.
Tim showed a depth of kindness by just being. His type of pure kindness is rare.
At my desk, sitting between Garbriel Garcia Marquez's Chronical of a Death Foretold and No One Writes to the Colonel is Tim Thorne, Running Out of Entropy; that final poetry collection:
The last two verses of his last book read:
Thus clad he crept out to the city street,
A busy one. The sun by now was high.
He'd left his phone behind, so could not tweet
For help, but not one single passer-by
(This being Sydney) thought him ought but sweet
(Lara always dressed to please the eye.)
He got back to his residence. No key,
No card, no cash, no clothes: a quandary.
Luckily, the landlord lived downstairs
And was a pleasant fellow - a rare breed,
The pleasant landlord - so, thinking his cares
(The worst of them, at least) were gone indeed,
He knocked and, muttered to himself some prayers
For understand in his hour of need,
Said, "I've been in a closest. Now I'm free.''
The landlord looked him over. "So I see''.
Note: There's a good interview with Tim from 2007 : https://walleahpress.com.au/FR35Thorne.html
