i.m. G.L.

His emails came, shyly at first, as though
emerging from winter, testing
uncertain sunlight and the lengthening days.
Then drawings, scanned to screen,
his sheets of careful butterflies, their wings
a concentration of colour, each felt-tipped
within its printed outline. No explanation
of this struggle for neatness, nothing
about the stroke or obstinate practice
to make his hands behave again. Sometimes
there’d be a voice clip, his voice,
singing the lightest air.
Today his favourite duet (Pearl Fishers)
floats from the radio, catching me,
and I forget he’s dead. I printed out
his butterflies: so very frail, so necessary.


If you have any thoughts about this poem, D.A. Prince  would be pleased to hear them