An answer to Vanessa Kirkpatrick,
Correspondent and
cellist,
Scribe of the opening
question.
Who
have come from the place
our
dreams have been going to
with
so much longing? It is
surely
only the wind who sighs
and
snorts through the house
up
and down stairs and summons
all
our fears... for what? For
posterity? A life lived in the joy
of
cessation’s shadow? Of the
chance
of deprivation at any
single
moment? How did I
lose
you? But they might
more
likely ask the same
in
time. Oh in good time.
We
offer you the time we have,
such
as it seems and such
as
it may be, you graveside
larrikin,
you jester in the
memories
of us. I almost
want
to die already, such
the
poise and gentleness
of
your jokes about the us
who
were the we who were
the
fear and joy whom you
became
and joyed and feared
you
us we were and thus
the
children ever we. But
that
is tired philosophy,
not
love as such. Who spring
from
unwounded and yet
rent
us? Who?
Who? A dog barks
your
place in the yard, food-
dropper,
ball-fumbler, reckless
cackler,
the life of the party
and
soul of all our sport.
I
went to you late last night
when
you were beside your-
self,
ínconsòlable, seething
with
a teething rage. We
were
all at your cotside then,
as
I’m sure you know – all do –
all
of us in your company.
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