19-4-1953 — 9-11-2018
Alphabet letters scatter themselves across my desk.
I tease words into shape, grow lines in perfect fit to
capture the spaces you left behind. Then rearrange
in a rhythm that remembers places we used to go.
And there you are!
In a Cafe, a book shop, the SJT,
at Woodend and Beach Hut
and a walk by the sea.
But Moira’s Den lies empty –
awaiting our next rehearsal.
Though your perfect prose needed no rehearsing.
I watch as you raise your pen, and, with a look of determination,
search your pages. Crossing out here, changing words there,
swapping sense around, conjuring new ideas.
Then, with the flourishing finish of a magician’s wand, your poem emerges
and the words flow from your lips as you recite the creation.
It becomes a beautiful thing.
I write my own words here and, as I fear,
the tear-stained page starts to rage
at the suddenness of death.
I steal the last line from your poem
to sign off and such
as I whisper to myself:
‘Miss you Qwerty. I love you very much.’
(last line from: ‘Heavenly Scrabble’ by Shirley Waite)