This poem, a pantoum, is in memory of Rick Vick, a wonderful, community spirited man of Stroud and fellow poet who died a year ago.
Lost to winter
The cyclamens, the small, pink clump of them,
delicate blooms in the rough autumn verge,
put me in mind of Greek Islands,
which in turn bring to mind your stories.
Delicate blooms in the rough autumn verge,
then passing the top of town poodle parlour,
in turn bring to mind your stories of loving,
living, dreaming on an Aegean paradise.
Passing the top-of-town poodle parlour
I recall your delicate teaching of poetry.
Was living and dreaming on an Aegean paradise
how you found the rhythms held in words?
I recall your delicate teaching of poetry
finding through your gathering of souls a place
where the rhythm held in words
flourished and acceptance grew like flowers.
Finding through your gathering of souls a place,
a community where to create is to breathe
to flourish, and acceptance grew like flowers
whose fading is no broken line, rather stories gone to ground.
A community where to create is to breathe
in exchanges that nourish our blooms
whose fading is no broken line, rather stories gone to ground
like Cyclamen graecum, small, pink clumps of them.