made of rain

It happens in a blink of an eye, in the interstice between one hour and another, in the gaps between raindrops. Between snowflakes.

Perhaps you are doing something else. Perhaps you are sharing poetry with deep friends, sharing tea and cake and wine, cosy and loved, oblivious.

He was there in another country, and though we never saw him, we knew he was there. Then suddenly, too young, too suddenly, he wasn't there, and we didn't know for days. And then the wild rush to be there – floods traffic sea mountains lagoons touchdown traffic snow fog – before this his last journey from this realm, at least for now.

Colourful. Unique. Difficult. Utopian idealist. Creator. Outsider. Adventurer, traveller, surfer, maker, musician, linguist, existentialist, loner, stranger.

There is much to say of our time together and its many many adventures (and mishaps); of the journeys; the creations, not least she who changed my world so significantly for the better; the foraging and wild living outdoors in lost pockets of Europe; the sea, the sea, the sea; the songwriting and busking; the learnings; the challenges; the laughter. His laugh.

And none of it is for here. But if I am silent a while, this is why.

The world is still spinning, but spinning a little faster and in a counter-clockwise direction for me, right now.

My friend J wrote me these beautiful words (à propos of being): 'It feels like deep winter to me – made up of sleep for the heart... Well actually made up from rain... aren't we all...'