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
He was a great art painter, used unusual material to paint on, like old IKEA doors.
NOW THE WORLD LIES BLEEDING
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
