I wrote this long ago for a friend with cancer - a small malignancy the size of a pearl in her lung. The hateful thing metastasised to her pancreas after two years in the shadows - she lost her battle last week. She was 73. She was firm friends with my mother my entire life, and her own children Isobel and Craig are like my own flesh and blood. I was unable to attend the funeral due to ill health, but she requested this poem be read out at her funeral - I'm sharing it here as a tribute to her, and I've changed names to preserve her privacy and dignity. **


This kingdom's hewn of time and words
And glances flashing over
Shadows, shapes and silhouettes
And pearls of smoke and ochre.

Rude invaders! Generals!
Who dares encroach our borders?
"Naught but pearls my princess, so
We strike! At dawn! No quarter!".

Set shoulders low and feet aplant
And curl your fingers slowly.
Your enemy is swift and lean,
Ten thousand times below you.

No mercy from a princess who
Instilled in fresh disciples
Wisdom, courage, whimsy, love and
When it's called for... rifles.

Gather muskets! Catapults!
Oh marshalls! Summon nurses!
The game's afoot and outcomes?
Well, who dwells on whom we versus?

For masses swell behind you and your
Gleaming armour guides us.
Swords aflame! We saw! We came!
Wakes of pearls behind us!

Ten years hence, one hundred, more
Louises, Davids, Andrews,
Will sing with you your victory,
Sandy Alexandrou.

The man sings like a plague
crawling on the ground,
its attachments are not the first
thing you’ll notice, but when
his verses and the tone of his voice
slowly takes over the machinery

of your Monday morning misanthropy
you’ll begin to wonder
how you could ever forget
that loving takes more from you
than you could ever give, and how
you do it anyway. The toxin

now in your lungs, and your body’s
immune system is hostage to his
rhythms; chasms of his songwriting
has metastasised into your liver:
I love you’s taste like anxiety induced
speechlessness, and bile, and how

many times will you run this over
in your mind like a hallucination.
His song like a plague,
has wiped out this population
of sorrows, and what now of you
who has only ever claimed

that sadness was your art, your clothes,
your home, your sanity.

*What now?

How long will this stinging take
To wholly set in and metabolise
Search amongst muddy waters
Pursue a clearer compromise
I reach for you - Sulphur -
Find myself the gilded Fool
Iron makes a likely weapon;
Pyrite a lousy tool.

Yet you appear so indifferent
Or perhaps alike, otherwise
I wouldn’t hold my breath
Believe in worthwhile sacrifice
You may find me in the bush
Aflame before the Prophet
Plunge your poker in - spread thin -
My heart if you wish to stop it

Strike a match, test my metal
Will our souls still catalyse
Was his prediction correct
What the Alchemist surmised
Or has our time ran out
Have we reached our constant yet
How dastardly - equilibrium -
Were we pernicious when we met?

Is there any merit in looking
Back on methods - revised
Is there any hope now that
The chill has metastasised?
I would contact the Smith
If he could solder back - connection -
But our glow has dwindled now,
Without it there’s no resurrection.

Though I’m overcome - ravenous -
Your appetite dissatisfies
My belly runs on empty
Without you, comes my demise
Nears a cold stove
And the Chef, grown tired.
Farewell, my loving Sulphur.

Yours Truly,
a fading Fire…