The colour of magic – for Terry Pratchett

28/04/22

On Terry Pratchett Day – which was his birthday – here’s my homage to him. The poem was written in 2015. But thought it’d be nice to republish by way of a birthday greeting.

Hats off to Sir Terry.

OOK!

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?