This blog is for Christopher Johnson who gave me now cherished books of poetry by 'AE' and Fiona Macleod (see previous posts). This morning I reluctantly went to work with a heavy head cold and the niggling feeling that today was an important anniversary. I found myself thinking of Chris, one of my dearest of all friends; a musician, writer, publisher and one of the kindest men I had had the privilege to know - so strong was his sense of presence, I typed his name and that of Skoob Esoterica, the publishing company he helped to set up, into Google's search engine. Up came an obituary which had been published in the Independent - Chris had died on April 7th 1996, thirteen years ago today. This was the first year I hadn't consciously remembered .... the past few weeks having been somewhat up and down as another close person became seriously ill, threaded together with more life affirming activities such as walking over the downs in the spring sunshine - with new friends.
But I hadn't forgotten Chris - all that he loved returns in each new spring.
In the hollows of quiet places may we meet, the quiet place where is neither moon nor sun, but only the light of amber and pale gold that comes from the Hills of the Heart. There, listen at times: there you will call, and I hear: there will I whisper, and the whisper will come to you as dew is gathered on the grass, at the rising of the moon.
From 'Silence of Amor' by Fiona Macleod.