(for William Martin, 1925-2010)
There are those who sing,
poets
with the breath of thrushes;
who craft songs
from out of their deep roots,
whose verse roars
with the sea
and the sky
and the pain of the land.
In the cathedral
of their hearts,
their tunes rise up
and fill the heavens
with flocks of words.
They are few
and far between,
these fliers
of lyrics.
Above plodders
and traipsers
of verse,
they reach for real stars,
pluck at galaxies
and dreams
of word symphonies,
anthems
that soar for centuries.
William, my friend,
you were
one of these,
a fatherer of folk hymns,
a Durham choirman,
singing quarryman,
carving out poems
with his pick and soul.
On a piano keyboard
of a dictionary,
you composed
a music festival
of passionate poetry.
KEITH ARMSTRONG
