On the Death of Terry Pratchett
Sometimes,
They tell you little stories,
When the good ones die,
Sometimes they're even sweet, or bittersweet,
But in the end, they are currents in the river.
And, a current is kindly, after all:
Its a medium for carrying on.
A current could rush you from the rotten moorings
Could tumble you through the bramble on the banks.
Sometimes,
They roll out anecdotes,
When the good ones die,
Sometimes they're even wise, or funny,
But in the end, they are wind on the stream.
And, a wind is kindly, after all:
It fills the sail and tugs it gently forward.
A wind could carry you over the murky bits,
Could rush you into the free and open sea.
Sometimes.
But only if you've already a ship,
And the ship is sound.
And when the good ones die,
Your ship sails off without you,
And sometimes, after all,
You need to stand just so,
And feel the aching chill
Of a still pool,
And not, - just yet - rush forward,
Sometimes.
(Terry Pratchett died today. I did not know him, or his work, really, but I've been listening, and watching some of my friends who loved him dearly. The best to you all, friends)
