On the death of Yuri Lyubimov

The poetry of Russia

Etched in an eyebrow
Of a man I'd never heard of:
Upraised in a flamboyant curve
Yet nonchalant and friendly.
Who was this man
Who had inspired so much love?
Who this people?

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9 November 2014

A crowd assembles in twos and threes In the cold damp air and chilly sun Outside All Saints: some clutching Memories and some wreaths. The children watch as Nick reshuffles The timings for the Last Post: To finish at eleven on the dot So we'll be silent in remembrance. Yet today either the list of names Is longer or the old soldier reads Too slowly: so the clock tower bell Loudly interrupts the bugle's lament.

Gone

Gone, Archie lies still, facing away from the door, his toes to the wall, his beautiful head resting, the tip of his tongue just visible, his eyes staring forward, four feet from where I had last seen him alive, frozen in time. O Archie, I held you, stroked you, hoped you would revive. O Archie, gone. Gone your optimism. Gone your joy in life. Gone your scrapping, your stick chasing, your ball shredding, your compost bin charge, the walk to the Unicorn, your wait by the local store, your fart from beneath the dining table. Gone.

A hollow embrace

Her eyes flit across the rafters, Count motes in a sunbeam, Reluctant to engage with my gaze; Obscuring her discomfort. Her body is heavy yet hollow. It does not yield to my touch But remains still, almost breathless; As she hides close by me.

nicks

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