Someone told me to read it.
And then three days later I heard,
From someone else,
Entirely,
That he'd died!
So I read it again,
In the park, whilst waiting on a friend.
Bright spring,
Heavy droplets.
As I sat having coffee in my tear stained
dress,
Irrevocable sadness.
For whom did I feel?
Him or I?
When you're alive, you realise death.
When you're dead, you realise nothing.
The words leap, vibrant,
Teeming with life.
Yet, he's dead.
They sing staccato!
He cannot.
And I am here with the book in my bag.
It must not stay there.
Someone owes him something.
Our fingers touch as I pass it over.
Life.
Whether it is read or not read. We can live can't we?
We can only try,
So write the words in the chapters of your lives,
With melody that soars staccato,
As high as a word can go.
For Dean Young (1955-2022)