I lost myself in books and in wild flowers
I lost myself in you,oh joyous hours.
But now I cannot lose myself, I fight
My presence to myself, a heavy weight.
My skin became like armour, my defence
No flowing into others as was once.
The joy of losing all my sense of self
Now I see this as a source of wealth.
I became all others yet still me
I felt the human kinship I could see
To feel yourself and not an alien thing.
How is life renewed how shall we sing?
How long the day seems now you are not here
Without your company how shall I steer?
I feel your absence like a pain, like grief.
When death has stung, it then becomes a thief
How long each day seems when I am alone.
I understand the beetles under stones
Your presence was a blessing, was delight
Whether in the day or in the night.
Now I mend the cupboards and the doors
Nothing seems quite like it was before.
I miss your presence and your company
Since you died I feel feel that I’m not me.
I do not feel myself, I feel estranged.
Ranging through these rooms I miss your gaze.
‘To be able to draw from observation, he believed, was “the foundation for fine art, for applied art, for architecture, for thinking, for coming up with ideas, for opening our minds through an intense process of really looking at the world around us”.
How my heart sings 