Dearest wildflower grinning,
With powdery, crooked teeth,
Hair, incandescent and unusual,
Bright-eyed,
Bright mind,
I write this although it was my last,
Follow me into the Holocene,
And the night ghosts will not steal your eccentric soul,
You shall always be an epitaph for the ages,
Your happiness plastered on pages,
Your blue eyes dance away,
Your irises discoloured and grey,
Never has indigo seemed so violent,
Never has Auburn seemed so opaque,
And for strong tongues to seem so silent,
And Berlin nights,
And London days,
David Bowie,
Our Ziggy, Our Starman,
Now there is life on Mars.