For John Henley Heathcote Williams
After nine years the infamous abductee retains absence,
Writing over the astral as if scoring a star with his quill.
As he was always a kind of Shakespeare for space
Which broad as it is could encompass the path
That Heathcote Williams wandered granting each conjugation
Of wisdom and word its own thrill. His poems appeared
Comet-like, making each page or screen a home cosmos,
As he cauterised chaos from Trump’s genesis to the breath
Which must have birthed the Big Bang; that pre-galactic sigh
Or sneeze from a being beyond our Ken who John Henley
Now biographies beyond death. It is nine years now
Since that voice which at its best was sound honey,
Was poured over our present to soothe and to stir our unrest
At the status quo and the qua as previously blurted by Beckett.
Heathcote Williams’ questions were always a dare to the dark
And attest to our understanding of light and how it prisms out
Around language. The dark side of the moon was the region
That Heathcote Williams saw all too well. It was from where
He could see Earth’s blue ball, from which every dolphin
And whale still call to him. And every elephant roar. Autogeddon’s
Automobiles as earth acne scar under stars. Their zits swell
Before the nebula bloom and parabola fire catching his widening
‘fro to make tendrils of every separate strand of his hair.
Medusa-like they’ll leave marks across the blush and burn
Of each planet. He will fondle the gas rings of Saturn
And charm ice cold Pluto and whatever’s beyond with his care.
How far have Voyagers 1 and 2 travelled now? 1 light day NASA
Tells us. Around 21.34 billion kms; so how many weeks will
Williams have skywalked now in nine years? With his imagination
And mind he would have already stopped to imbibe on some other
Alien breakfast, dining no doubt upon ether to make up for the air
Which was lost carving tears, to be posted back to us here,
As meteors cloaked by crystal and signed by him saying:
“Silence is another language again; have No Fear.”
We miss you, Muse. Eternally you are looked for.
In sitting here still I search for you. Abductee. Angel.
Past Jupiter, dear John Henley fill us once more with thought.
Make us clear.
David Erdos July 1st, 2026
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