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 for Wendy Oliver, who knew him

I am the sick animal you dream you are caring for

In the long avenues of night I cannot find a name

For the sickness except the despair of a poet sensing his veins

Silt up like the delta of a neglected river with none of the solace

Sidney Graham felt as he lay by Nessie’s side with Madron’s circling

Wood and its snow blanket of comfort falling as he glided

From this world into the next, finger-painting his adieux into the small

Of her back, bidding them be hidden beyond the tiny bulk of his poems

To be found by the faithful far from the yawning taverns of eager tourists.
Alone with Nessie and her shadows in sleep as the wood of Madron Moved slowly towards that final deep.

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