The Award Winning John Foggin reminiscing
I wasn’t planning for a post this weekend, but then was reminded that a few days ago it would have been the birthday of my oldest friend, Ian, who, throughout our time at school, and for years afterwards, I called Jimmy. The last time I saw him was in June 2013, when I stayed for three days, with him and his wife Pat, in their home in Alicante. A couple of months later, he died. I wrote this for him then.
Nothing to be said
( James Ian Scott. d. August, 2013)
Invaded, occupied by multiplying
cells and the dark litanies of the names –
carcinomas, trophoblastic tumours,
melanomas – in the argot of the trade
they’ll be divided. Malignant or benign.
As if they might have consciences;
as though they had intention or design.
Brainless as weather, like hurricanes
or lightning strikes, or floods, or droughts,
they happen for…
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