I once wrote a small Nordic saga

in the shape of a poem for you,

to say thank you

for the precious gift you gave me,

an ear on a bad day, a shoulder

on one of the black days

and yet nothing I wrote in the space

of the blank page, was adequate enough,

not good enough to match

the beauty that your words that had soared

above the crowds inside St. George’s Hall

or caught fire in a cascade of glass

and petals as you sang with truth and honour

inside Leaf.

 

We say goodbye because we must,

for Time will not allow stagnation

unless it can mould the dust and blow

it to the four winds in the vain attempt

and belief that somehow each particle

will find another and the strength

of purpose will rejoin the passion.

 

A fond farewell then, no tears at dawn,

no hugs at midnight after one last drink

or faded smile

as the lips remember why they part.

Take Freyja with you, a woman of belonging

and who at this moment torments my soul,

take a last look at the city

who has loved you, a last look for now,

for in between the goodbyes and the

sad tears of ultimate regret,

home is always a place

you can revisit,

even in dreams.

 

Dedicated to all who leave eventually and the stories they remember.

Ian D. Hall 2015