A second poem for Iain

[rozk]

MOURNING IAIN

Sky porridge grey. No sun. Along the quay
a skittish wind bites cold face, aching head.
loose pages blow like gulls, cannot be read
because not written. There's a sort of glee

in so much sadness. It's the rictus grin
grief's ache puts on each face, that and the cold.
We mourn him not as we'd have mourned him old
complete and done. We mourn the might-have-been

One handshake more, one joke, or one last book,
We'd squeeze them out of him, like drops of blood
if we could keep him, selfishly, we would.
Remember how he smiled pained, one last look

Farewell as he worked expert his last room.
One crow road feather for hearse horse's plume.

Comments

[ms-chatelaine.livejournal.com]

I never really knew him except through his books and by meeting him once or twice at signings and cons. He actually introduced me to Ken MacLeod through his book Raw Spirit (complex story) and Ken and I have been good acquaintances ever since (you know, the kind of person you are delighted to meet at a con or wherever but don't really know).

My memories of him are of a good-natured and affable person, happy to chat and quite joyous in the fact that he was "a slacker!" and was getting away with working at writing for a quarter of the year and otherwise having a great time.

[ffutures.livejournal.com]

It's a huge loss - I don't think it's really sunk in to the SF community yet, but he's pretty much irreplaceable.