Going, going, gone …

Going, going, gone ….

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The colour of magic – for Terry Pratchett

Terry Pratchett’s wonderful books have graced (occasionally disgraced) my bookshelves since the late 1980’s and like, so many, the news of his death left me, perhaps irrationally (given that I did not know the man of course, but he had let me into his world, so I felt -somehow – that I did) saddened, with a feeling of personal loss. This is a very inadequate, but heartfelt, tribute to a writer who has enriched my reading life. My thoughts are with his family and friends, and with us – his legion of fans. GO WELL FRIEND

The colour of magic

What’s this?

The Discworld suddenly stilled.

The Librarian utters a muffled, choking Ook!

Angry mutterings issue from a star dusted, rainbow crazed, magical book.

The Luggage lifts its lid in silent tribute.

In the Assassins Guild, knives and other such Thieves of Time

are lowered.

A Golem glowers, breaking the mould,

dwarves, goblins, werewolves, trolls,

gone the stories, gone the gold.

Witches lower their broomsticks,

to fly no more.

Lord Vetinari is blacked out,

the clacks have nothing to shout about,

The Nightwatch nowhere to walk about.

Sam Vimes, Lady Sybil

all left to doubt.

The cast of characters too many, too bold,

how much story, how far the masterful imagination,

must remain,

untold.

IT IS DONE

The great turtle, serene, untroubled perchance

paddling its huge flippers

in the ever changing celestial dance,

notes, a wide brimmed hat

a grey beard, a whispered hint of black,

an author, happenstance?

THERE IS NO MORE.

Ah, maybe, but are you sure?


In celebration of St David’s Day

My angels were singing : a poem for St David’s Day

 

Concocted over the last few spring like days, out walking the dogs, watching the birds, and thinking of those who have died : Derek, who loved Pembrokeshire and rode on Carningli most days, and also of my grandparents (and others), who do – I believe – watch over me.

 

I stood near the house

where Grace once lived,

My angels were singing.

 

I watched as birds

and daffodils dived.

My angels were singing.

 

It’s spring and the sun

bursts fat and alive.

And my angels were singing.

 

Old crow, silhouetted against Carningli rock,

purple shadowed on blackened burnt bracken,

gorse and heather reeling :

the after shock.

But my angels were singing, still.

As seagulls wheeled across the bay,

catching sea breezes,

tumbling at will.

 

The Irish Sea lies beneath

becalmed and silvered blue,

and my angels were singing.

 

Wales’ favourite saint remembered

the new season breaks forth, springing,

flowers dancing, church bells – ringing.

His angels – singing.

 

Seasons, people, live and die,

here and now is for the living.

But remember those you love or loved –

do try.

And let your angels be singing.

Let your angels be singing.

(I have shared this poem before – but it is very specific to St David’s Day and the emergence of spring – we hope – and it is one of my favourites, so I hope you will forgive me!)