Saturday, 4 July 2015

Windhover, remembering.

A year today we lost a very dear friend too young. A lively, cheeky and generous soul who'd do anything for you. I'm welling up as I write this, I don't often bother with personal stuff on the net but today is different and occasionally a heartpour is necessary.

For the crazy adrenaline-filled stories. For that random pair of slippers you find stashed away in your cupboard that found a new home here for the many spontaneous cups of tea supped. And countless biscuits munched. For your favourite tipple of choice. For that crazily fast car journey all the way back from Wales just to pick me up as a favour. Always think of you when I'm in a passenger seat and don't know whether to sit back or forward! For your addiction to Disney, yes it was an addiction. Sofas through windows, beds through ceilings. For the time you got soaked in hot motorbike engine oil on the motorway. For that pillion ride and those back-breaking gear changes! For that firework display of ALL firework displays. For your fidgeting. For your love of cigars. For your love of gadgets and shiny kit syndrome. For the way you left your bike lid on your head. For your silly, irritating but loveable habits, you are and will always be sorely missed.

We've made beautiful new friends despite losing precious old ones and we will endeavour to keep those friendships burning in your memory. A few to be supped on your behalf tonight.

For your love of kestrels. Both the pics in this post taken with the first DSLR camera I got round to messing about with, yours.

The Windhover
by Gerald Manley Hopkins

I caught this morning morning's minion, king-
      dom of daylight's dauphin, dapple-dawn-drawn Falcon, in his riding
      Of the rolling level underneath him steady air, and striding
High there, how he rung upon the rein of a wimpling wing
In his ecstasy! then off, off forth on swing,
      As a skate's heel sweeps smooth on a bow-bend: the hurl and gliding
      Rebuffed the big wind. My heart in hiding
Stirred for a bird, – the achieve of, the mastery of the thing. 
Brute beauty and valour and act, oh, air, pride, plume, here
      Buckle! AND the fire that breaks from thee then, a billion
Times told lovelier, more dangerous, O my chevalier!

      No wonder of it: shéer plód makes plough down sillion
Shine, and blue-bleak embers, ah my dear,
      Fall, gall themselves, and gash gold-vermilion.


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