The Night George Michael Died

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.


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