Returning Edward Thomas To The Library

Returning Edward Thomas To The Library

I watch him slide, slow and grinding,
into the slot. A whirr and a clunk and a beep
and he’s gone. I feel sad. More than sad: desolate.
I want to grab him back, keep him with me, close.
An image, then: of Joe Strummer and of Courtney Love
throwing herself on his coffin as it headed for the flames.

Every loss is different. Every loss reminds us

and I remember the sun-filled afternoon before all this,
before you and me, when I sat on his Hampshire hill
and felt a taste of you, felt the timelessness
and the joy of trees and birds and Autumn light.
I thanked him then for bringing me alive
and I thank him here, now, for bringing me to you.

Every loss is different. Every loss reminds us

and I turn, walk away, swipe my card.
It pings but the barrier refuses to open:
I freeze, then tears, those bloody tears, come again
but he’s taught me, as you’ve taught me
and I’ve learned how the wind would sound.
And so I take each of you with me, out into the Summer light.