Bill Sherman, in a comment to this morning’s post, informed me that the Scots poet/makar Edwin Morgan had passed at 90. You can read a first obit by the BBC here. Bill included the following poem, which I’ll also reproduce:
My life, as a slant of rain
on the grey earth fields
is gathered in thirsty silence, disappears.
I cannot even guess
the roots, but I feel them sighing
in the stir of the soul I die to. Let this rain
be on the childeren of my heart,
I have no other ones.
On the generations,
on the packed cells and dreaming shoots,
the untried hopes, the waiting good
I send this drop to melt.
There will no doubt be a fair amount more on Edwin Morgan in the next few days & I’ll try to add relevant links to this post.