For your birthday, just this:
More words spent without you
Across the gulf we stare skywards,
Seeking your shade, shaping years
That remember your tread,
Forever felt close beside us,
Your liquid voice spelt and flowing
And allowing tears their own language
With which to dispel each fresh fear.
We live in difficult days that you
Would have described with such candour
As well as a splendour that only your
Richness of word conjured forth.
Magician, your trick came not from
The disappearance you left us,
But from how you have remained
At the forefront of not only this page
But thought’s birth. Each new one
Starts with you. This is your birthday card.
Will you read it? I’ll send it anyway,
Will you read it? I’ll send it anyway,
Heathcote, with a star for a stamp
You’re still sought. We kiss you on earth
And watch them spiral and spark
Courted cosmos. From these rooms
Of waiting, your light is still shining.
When we arrive we’ll knock for you.
The writer still worshipped.
Author again. Open doors.
David Erdos November 14th 2020
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