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Poem	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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