Ramblings of an Old Kweer

 
  My mind is taking me back to the Drake SF club meeting above th Stonehouse when we found out Patrick Troughton had died. It helps to feel not so alone right now. 

  Kerk

 
   Before it is too late I thought I should add another song to this meme. 

   I've always experienced a sense of loss and resigned continuation from this, 

   Today,as I prepared to find this video again I found myself experienceing a bitter sense of the loss of  innocence about the world's progress to the hoped for future seen in worlds from Gene Roddenberry to Joss Whedon. 

   I've lost friends; fans of Star Trek; Star Wars; Buffy the Vampire Slayer and Doctor Who, because of their inexplicable support of Donald Trump. 

   The loss I sense will of course be powerfully familiar to far too many people in this world. 

   Anyway, here is #4 Dilerzim by Koma Berçem 

  


  Goddess preserve us in these dark times,  

 
  Today has seen the deaths of two famous Welshman; ( Gareth Thomas ) who most will probably know best as Roj Blake in Blake's 7; which was my first fandom, and a former National Poet of Wales ( Prof. Gwyn Thomas )  - I found out about the latter because I was searching for a poem by or about Wales; penned by someone from Wales preferably. 

  I did not realise it would be such a frustrating task. 

  For a land of bards the work of their poets is very hard to find; certainly nothing by Gwyn Thomas could be had. Eventually though I found this by an Argentinian-born poet who lived in Wales; which also happens to describe this year as it is unfolding. Winter here is a spiritual thing for me; I love Winter, but the winter of the spirit is a much harsher creature. 


  Winter Walk by Lynette Roberts 

  
  She left the hut and the bright log fire at noon 
  And walked outside on crisp white winter snow 
  To find the iced slopes shadowed like the moon, 
  The wild wood desolate and bare below; 
  The red trees wet, adrift with icy flow, 
  The evergreens with glassy needled leaves; 
  A bloodstone veined red and white this view weaves. 

  But lifted off the path like crystal spheres 
  There lay cut prints of glinting stylized forms 
  Of birds not seen, large sparkling twig-like spears, 
  And squirrel pricks where fox's paw transforms 
  White single roses out of petalled storms; 
  While keltic scrolls transcribe where birds had been: 
  Then stamped in ice another track was seen. 

  A slight right turn of foot. She sensed him there, 
  Tree like with rain coat shouldered, fine large looks, 
  A four-armed god. From this sweet honeyed snare 
  She turned, upspraying, Marsh Tits, Finch, and Rooks, 
  Through brushwood hills, seeing by frosted brooks 
  His foot prints: these she retraced like a bride 
  With loaves and wood returned to his keen side. 

  
  
  
 
   Goddess watch over us all, 

   

   Kerk TehKek