Saturday, 31 July 2021

Poem: IN THE ABSENCE OF BRYN FORTEY

 




IN THE ABSENCE 

OF BRYN FORTEY 

(1937-2021)


lost days are made up of seasons 
each season a different country, 
evenings become dark now, with shivers of cold, 
steam flows from cafés out over sidewalks where 
passersby button themselves tighter into greatcoats, 
it’s time to incinerate a pile of dreams left over 
from previous seasons on a funeral pyre so that 
bright sparks of flame climb high through cloud 
beyond the sky to lodge in spaces between stars, 
where they can erupt into new constellations 
to confound the compilers of horoscopes 
and confuse those who claim 
to know of seasons to come



1 comment:

John Lyle said...

Beautiful tribute, Andy.