Flood Tide

I was sitting by the river bank at Twickenham, just down stream from Richmond, which was visible from where I was seated on some concrete steps of a mooring place. It had rained heavily and somehow it reflected all the mixed emotions I felt concerning my friend David. He had sent me a postcard a month or so before his suicide and he seemed to be happy, but then he was good at covering up pain with humour. He had accompanied his mother on a trek across the Yorskshire Dales and he referred to himself as Sherpa Tensing, as she was using him to carry the backpacks.

I have always wanted to put a tribute together for him as he was a wonderful raconteur and a very caring friend. He would have made a brilliant mark on the world if he had lived. It is so hard to be caught between two worlds.



Floodtide
The River swollen like a toothache.
Waterfowl fight the currents.
Mud brown water
Runs like treacle.
Eddies, eddies, eddies.

Floodtide.
I cast my soul into these waters,
Watch it fight against the current.
Watching from the bank,
I’m drowning.
Floodtide.

If it rains anymore,
How will I take the shore?
Floodtide

(c) 1994 December