but the car fell in a ditch, on the way.
it had to be hauled out by a tractor.
i don't know why you swerved,
but then - what butterfly flies straight?
i could always make out
the invisible scallop shell, the staff -
but it's your giggle i remember best.
you laughed, perhaps, because
as soon as truth stood to attention,
you were waiting for the pratfall?
i remember you doing
an enormous jigsaw:
butterflies in a thousand pieces!
those messenger-companions
who taught you every hither and thither turn
of the air-labyrinth. a fine, erratic art.
your kindness saw me through many
tempests. a Prospero yourself,
you were no stranger to self-sown whirlwinds.
i sent you poems: scorched birds
who'd come through the fire, and
generously you replied,
singling out phrases which pleased you -
giving me something back.
that's what you did well: you gave back...
and now the measure of that giving
is that this path is all done.
it's time to try out the air beyond the edge,
open your dappled wings and float.
"Not fare well,
But fare forward, voyager!"
(for Stanley, who died on 17th March 2013)
