His books were loved as he loved his life for they and he were one each volume held a world within its covers a seed already grown a life already lived both beginning and end alongside the life between where the living the dead and the dreamt-of coexist in pages of printed passion grey words and purple passages telling of love adventure the commonplace and the rare of depression and elation delight and despair but always under the bright stars of expectancy and hope
Oh my love paint me into the shadows of your dreams I want to be there among the drifting moonbeams of your waning passion and as their dim light fades in the morning dew to watch as our hopes sink slowly through pools of deepest blue.
Let their adagio their mellow harmonies accompany the murmurings of my fading breath and as its remnants settle on the bed of those fathomless depths let them guide my blissful path to Heaven
I think of my first love who escaped south and who now faces old age with a brightness far better than death’s impending despair.
My last love, All passion spent, Was of a quiet deep fulfilment of silent bliss engaging me while the blackbird for both of us now sings in the highest tree and, with a distant touch of the hands, a slower walk with the waves on that distant shore, bird and sea, my soul is fed, listening to their songs keeping at bay life’s end.
For now I dream converse, I listen to my memories, resisting that clouding of the vision which elapsed time brings.
I allow perception of days to come in which appreciative eye and halcyon heart will enable a new closeness, one of being together in harmony with both past and present, and the future becomes again brighter.