A man of words…but few spoken
He said little
least through lips, mouth,
broken teeth or bitter throat.
He confessed to being a writer of a type,
so he wrote,
His words a tangle of letters,
conundrums, some still left to ponder.
We wonder often if he chose himself
the games and wars he wrote of.
I still see him strolling by the sea,
leaving tracks in the soft silver,
other words written, not with hands
but with his body.
on the surface of the earth
and in the wash of white waves.
Prose composed of air, water and salt.
He wrote away his demons,
suppressed by tongue,
expressed by pen and ink.
madness, the dark red rage
Written into a blank page
or the whitespace of the intranet.
Spitting happiness and grief,
three children, a lover.
The work of horses and courses,
trucks and books
So he might travel light into that goodnight.