Written in Greyfriars, Edinburgh, January 2000

Cattle die, kinfolk die,
each one of us will likewise die,
but one thing will never die:
the joy of life well-lived.

(Hávamál, approx 10th century,
translated with regard to the meaning of this occasion to me.)


where are the songs now
that you would sing, or play?
the stories that you read, then,
to a small, listening, child
who'd wait, in wide-eyed fascination,
to meet Gawaine and Guinevere,
dance at Queen Mary's court,
or see a thornbush set by the hut door
to guard against the night,
or hear the tramp of roman legions,
or Deirdre singing for her red-cheeked love,
or trace Arachne's web?

those threads you'd weave
now become a tapestry, fabric of wyrd,
life spun, whole, complete in harmony,
receding with the day;
long sunset, grey geese crying
on the wind, breath, words
failing into night that fell, muting
music, now matter for another tale
that we your children tell:
from half-remembered fragments spinning
memories, another hope,
blithe with your song;
in joy, as we remember.


(For my mother Janet P Blain, who died at 5.30 p.m., January 8, 2000.)


Copyright © J Blain 2000

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