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John Philip Coville

Born 23.November 1941 in England, Died on 28.03.2021 in Andorra la Vella.

As an active member in our small Andorran community he was beloved by many. Joining the Monday walks, the Saturday HASH Harriers, Computer meetings, Economist group, Club quiz, 4×4 road trips, skiing, attended most dinners and lunches. He was a keen painter and poet , won a competition in Scotland, his work was published in the Spectator. Also a keen photographer, good eye for nature and details.

He is gone You can shed tears that he is gone Or you can smile because he has lived

You can close your eyes and pray that he will come back Or you can open your eyes and see all that he has left

Your heart can be empty because you can’t see him Or you can be full of the love that you shared

You can turn your back on tomorrow and live yesterday Or you can be happy for tomorrow because of yesterday

You can remember him and only that he is gone Or you can cherish his memory and let it live on

You can cry and close your mind, be empty and turn your back Or you can do what he would want: smile, open your eyes, love and go on.

Written by David Harkins

John Coville in a local pub Edinburgh 2017

He was a great art painter, used unusual material to paint on, like old IKEA doors.

Always a bus in Edinburgh
Beyond the stump – Andorra
Monday Walkers in La Seu – “The Usual Suspects” 2004


Now I am waking  in these solitary nights,

stung by a vague discomfort of the senses,

a fancy to wander in the dark – 

that cannot be given,. . . .  permitted  only

 to count  replicating stars.

from a  singleton window.

Now, something steals into the heart , 

something one always feels in darkness ;

the still presence of far homes,

little rooms lost in the deep valleys.

where the  world hides it’s pain from the light;

A pain that cannot be touched

from a single bed  or beneath 

a shroud of sheets,

where we are lost in the shadowed scents 

of our personal worlds.

And, out there , undiscovered  lives

that we will never know,

sequestered in their sleep.

Now, within the buried earth,

flat walls and windows barred,

those in isolation cling to stillness until,

lights move in darkened frames,

figures glide by open doors.

warmed in hot tunnels of light,

. . . . for the night dies bleeding,

and from it’s black heart the last drops

spill into the shadowed steps of morning,

joining the undiscovered diamond dew;

a Midas hoard that lying unspent

waits to be frittered by a careless sun

lost to the hot metal of our empty streets.

By John Coville  5th April 2020