For bwhere

bwhere

Going
by Philip Larkin

There is an evening coming in
Across the fields, one never seen before,
That lights no lamps.

Silken it seems at a distance, yet
When it is drawn up over the knees and breast
It brings no comfort.

Where has the tree gone, that locked
Earth to sky? What is under my hands,
That I cannot feel?

What loads my hand down?



Suffice it to say I will miss your wit and clever brilliance. Laughter often followed a click on your journal page. Scholarly or silly, you were one of my first and valued blipfoto connections. You loved Philip Larkin, so this verse seems fitting. We live such fleeting lives, but you added to mine, virtually, but in a very real way these last odd 800 days. I shall miss you. Thank you for being my friend.