When David Attenborough dies, a great part of us
Will die with him. For there will be no-one left
To quite care for, or curate the earth as he has;
No-one who can chart with the same intelligence
And refinement, the precise art of Nature,
The specific drama of plants, the seas’ jazz.
For over seventy years, this very particular David
Has tackled grub and goliath and the noble mind
Of the Ape. He has both appealed and appeased,
He has entertained, educated, while at the same time
Reprimanded for Man’s lack of kindness and seeming
Unwillingness to escape the doom fate has sketched,
And which we now colour in daily. He has shown
The stakes at which we are burning with the same sagacity
As a Saint. Which is what he should be, as when
That dread day approaches Attenborough will take
The sun with him as he precipitates its farewell,
By having one less reason to shine, as this contemporary
Christ meets his maker, while we rake soil and surface
For the wonder he has wrought from Earth’s spell.
His soup-smooth voice tastes of calm. His erudition
Charms language. His passion and sense shape a standard
To which everyone else should now reach. At 99 then,
May he have another century spread before him.
(He won’t, sadly) But this son of Leicester who gave us
BBC2 and the World begat and bequeathed in an almost
Biblical sense, the soul’s Bible: be at one with your planet
And do not rush to be heaven-hurled. This English
Gentlemen has stood firm before burn and beauty.
He is the type of wise elder seen on TV in Star Trek.
But look at his journeys on Earth and listen
To his soul-fed sound, his God whisper. We are the coals
He is calming. We are fire’s flints, we’re the flecks
That are cracked across flame and rise at night
As smoke travels. We are the dare and the dazzle
He has drawn our bleared eyes to see, through either
A hummingbird’s blur, or the psychedelic skin
Of a lizard; Attenborough’s the atom at the fulcrum
Of faith and the bee busy feeding the chain
Within which we’re all breathing. As we stumble
Or strain it, he walks a few steps ahead, guiding us.
More than half in touch with the past, but with each
Remaining part primed by futures. Aghast, we start
Queuing but David A. will never need that last bus.
If they have any sense, those beyond will rush
Through time and space to transport him.
Granting him a galactic seat on the council that sits
In judgement of stars and the arc patterned
By other prophets long lost, or by those prized
Not in Rome, but by ancient communities in the jungle.
Attenborough is Amazonian, English, ethereal, brave,
Astral. Marked. For we do not deserve David’s dreams
Of wherever it is we are headed. In point of fact,
David dates us. For his is a time and a spirit that even
Before its begun we will miss. As his work and words
Elevate earthbound aspiration. Beyond our ken and yen,
He is rising, light enough to grace the sky’s kiss.
And reversing Newton no doubt, but still enthralled
By the apple which first brought temptation, then gravity,
Then the why? Which is the only proper question
To ask in any pursuit, aim, or function. So, why must he go
When he’s ready? To enlighten at last and to sigh
And enduce our own need to be more and to unearth
Our own explorations. For it is only when we stop looking
That we begin to reduce. Attenborough expands,
Through bear and butterfly, oak or ocean.
He is a still living myth and a Moses. A teacher
And guide and a friend. He represents what we were
And what we should be. An Earth Angel. And while
The sound of wings maybe stirring, but may their shadows
For now, stall his end. He did all we should do.
He literally brothered the planet. He was sibling as sea.
His wise water is where I would like to drown.
Great lives lend.
David Erdos 2/5/25
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