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