Death comes so fast, but also slow. Constrained
To die quite soon, a tumour, but for now,
Alive to see his friends, his home, somehow
Enjoying what he can, although still pained.
He saw his Michael Whelan print and said:
“I got to own that lovely thing, that art,
It makes me happy, has done from the start
And could you let him know that, when I’m dead?”
The art, the music, anagrams, the friends,
The cons, the conversations, all the days
Of building joy for everyone: that ends.
But memories live on, and all the ways
He made life better last. There’s no amends
When we go to the dark, but something stays.
March 1st 2016
(Morris died March 30th 2016. He got to see and appreciate… I think “enjoy” isn’t the word… this poem.)
