A BEAUTIFUL WIND
Brian Louis Pearce, 1933-2006
Overhearing voices, attempting to name
strangeness, mixing texts and opening
memories, I desperately delay grief.
Vans were being loaded as I found out
that you had already dashed on ahead,
made your final ever move. Checkmate,
game ended, pieces tipped over in disarray.
If we could live with no sense of dying
we wouldn't be human, you wouldn't be you.
You are no longer you. Reaching beyond
sorrow I ponder this particular death,
your private navigation of the world.
Living in the house full of holes,
your imagination is given free reign,
room to manoeuvre and dart, outwit
the angels and confuse new neighbours
with oblique reference and obsessions,
playful puns, your perceptive talk.
The possibility of possessing happiness
seemed always pushed aside; words
were ever so much more important.
Now you will never answer my questions
nor compile that reader you planned.
Another unpublished novel of yours
is hidden in my computer's memory,
many more in your abandoned brain.
You might learn to let go of language,
experience drive you along, rather than
recall and capture. You might learn to
dance or fly, be given perfect sight.
You are in the house full of holes now,
where you always knew you would be.
It is a beautiful wind that blows
the spirit home. Having begun by
calling for truth we must now trust
the silence and question no more.
A beautiful wind blows wherever you are.
© Rupert M Loydell 2006