Being so fitful a blogger these days, I've only just learned of my e-friend Dave King's death. He was an early blog contact, a generous supporter of my poetry and over the years I much enjoyed his wise and witty slant on life and the living of it. And he was a fine and prolific writer too. One of the 80+ friends commenting on the announcement by his son of Dave's passing suggested the compiling of a collection of his poems. It's an excellent notion. If any readers here know whether this notion has been taken any further, please notify me.
I posted They Mourn In White in 2011 and Dave appended the following comment. The last sentence has a greater resonance now.
A beautiful little gem of a poem. For me it ticks all the boxes. States with authority something I have (almost) always felt.
THEY MOURN IN WHITE
In India they mourn in white
and dress the dead in flowers. Music plays
and dancers lead the train. Bright days
remembered, not the starless night
reflected in the weeds we wear
in church and cemetery. What
afterlife do we propose? Death's counterplot
as a long black prayer
in the dark for light to find us?
Immortality's true rewards
are not in the light we crawl towards
but in the light we leave behind us.
Shared with The Mag and some of Dave's fellow prompt site poets.