On the night George Michael died
I thought of a hundred million things.
I wanted the entertainment on TV
to stop and move aside.
Make way for something less trivial,
hackneyed and stupid.
I wanted to hear the news,
to remember and reminisce.
Memories fall aside,
then come flooding back
in random snatches:
A Wembley stage, a scorching hot day.
Dancing on a Greek Island,
in the open air.
The shift from black to blond,
from black again to grey.
In some lifetimes his was a short time.
But he accomplished more at twenty,
than many at seventy-three.
He lived a life of pretence,
followed by openness.
Why Oxford and not Highgate?
Why at fifty-three?
How does this slot into a day of ritual?
as the final nail in Christmas Day.
These are my thought at midnight,
as Boxing Day begins.