Death Of A Mentor Poem by Sheena Blackhall

(for Dr. J.D.Gomersall, Centre for Psychotherapeutic Research, Sheffield)

The morning sun has risen oer the hill
And dawn is golden, pale as sifted wheat
Now every flower holds up its cup to fill
With dewy sun, the morning's rays, replete
With rainbow's hues. But I awaken, chill
From sorrow that our minds no longer meet.

A lover's thrust may thrill, may penetrate
To fornicate's the feather, but the quill
Is union of the psyche, higher state
Of character, of consciousness, of will...
With precious few I've chosen to relate
A mountain tarn is fathomless and still
The tuneful nightingale's an isolate
And piercing is the darkness of its trill

I was a high-wire walker- you, the net
Now you are gone, I tread with extra care
Knowing no catcher waits to break my fall
One slip could trip me into empty air
In that fine web of friendship and of Fate
Your death is both a vacuum and a tear

The morning sun has risen oer the town
But colder than the crypt I see it soar
For all my years, like windswept corn, bend down
Heavy with grief, to Melancholy's floor
High Spring- yet every bud in bloom seems brown
One who was here has closed the final door