Finally, my tribute to the brightest light in my world, my best friend, and the deepest most complex person I have ever had the chance to know. She was a mystic, a philosopher, an artist, a mother, a wife, a poet, and my love.
It was the practice in the parish church days to, upon the death of a soul, to ring the church bells once for each year of their life. I joined them with a music box-like tune played on her little Dulcetta, which has not been played since she had a stroke a couple of years ago and could no longer do so. Her hammers, her Dulcimer, it seemed right.
The second movement is a poem called Winter that I composed for her both to highlight her love of all seasons, and her embrace of the cold and dark as equals, and the symbolism in the cycles of our own existence, and our journey on to wherever our energy goes when it ceases to animate these forms.
Third movement: …and according to the old faith, that place is the Land of Eternal Summer, where she now dwells, and I will join her in my time, to sit by the fire in the little pub on the green, hold her hand, and laugh with her once more over a cold pint of cider.
Words by John Corbin Goldsberry
To rest, to dream of coming spring
Of crocus, snowdrops and bluebells
Of small uncurling fiddleheads
Of redbuds then of dogwoods
While all is gray, and ground is stone
And ice and snow lay settled
Bare branches whistle with each wind
A soft and lonely chorus
They sing of summer in their hearts
Of birds and squirrels and leafy boughs
Of bright blue skies and golden sun
And dappled light on loamy earth
Drink within the scent of joy
And dry the tears of unkind doubt
Embrace the lesson of the earth
And take the loving hand of Winter
Though you may miss the green and bright
Blue skies and pristine clouds of white
Look deep within your sorrowed heart
And see beyond illusion
Fear not, cry not, hide not from this
Cold season of the cycle
All must rest to wake once more
To know the lands of summer