You would have understood the paradox so well being
sharp and experiencing all you did – embracing it
yourself, so sweet but also impish: that comic gift you
gave her, Andy, a stranger in our midst, to flirt and tease to
excite – on how you passed in a good and bad year of dying.
As we near the end of this one, today’s Sunday papers
do a run of famous commentators writing about the famous
who have departed, but not about you. Where paradox is a
balancing act, I am redressing this here and now, placing
weight on your beaming smile in the photo I found last night.
For most it will be Bowie, a starman shining the brightest
even in death, yet I’ll look up to the closest taking flight,
and I am also writing this on the very day four years ago
another dear friend left, no less a loss in choosing so.