The memories have come thick and fast in the past seven days.

A myriad of colours, sepia toned and black and white

finish, all once perfected

with the laminated breath of a forgotten set of gods winking

their approval and non conformist heads

and now shattered, a grieving taking place as I find

my once perfect clown breathing in the cold heart of

electrical impulses, the bed of nails too hard to ignore.

 

This Clown took me through every lined connection and sweet serenade of song

as the circus came to town and the thoughts of being a bit part player

thrilled me without contest.

Never the leading man, nor would I want to have had the offering

of such confirmed upon this once teenage angry brow.

No longer the man of wrath but still one

who will rise  to the occasion when injustice is done

or when the spectre haunts with a glee so proud that the Devil

needs taking down and spanking, even at some unholy cost.

 

Thank you my dear Clown, normally I am afraid

of such white powdered rememberance, stark as they are

in Black and White and the sepia tone

flushed with too much life.

Thank you my funny Clown for whom I fell in love with

on the youthful stage, thank you for giving me a song

to sing and as the memory of lines used

eats away at my second remembered soul,

I know my Clown still lives and her little Billy is smiling.

 

Ian D. Hall 2015.

Dedicated to Carol, a compassionate Clown.