Tag Archives: eternity

A Letter From a Dead Poet! #atozchallenge

Before I launch into my series Letters to Dead Poets, I just wanted to share a surprise letter I received from a dead poet.

Perhaps, I was naive to think that just because these poets were dead, that they wouldn’t reply to my letters. Silly me! When you receive a letter, of course, you reply…especially these days when the art of letter writing is all but dead. Letters are rare and so special, especially when they’ve been written from the heart and are seeking answers to some of life’s toughest questions. Those questions which are so stubbornly impossible to answer, that they’re considered “rhetorical”.

Anyway, given how rarely anyone receives a personal letter these days let alone a dead poet, I guess I should’ve expected some sort of reply. That they’d go well and truly out of their way and over and beyond the call of duty to get in touch.

And so it was…

Dear Rowena,

A dear friend and fellow poet asked me to send you this and I can assure you that we’re very much alive…at least in spirit!

Do not stand at my grave and weep
I am not there; I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow,
I am the diamond glints on snow,
I am the sun on ripened grain,
I am the gentle autumn rain.
When you awaken in the morning’s hush
I am the swift uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circled flight.
I am the soft stars that shine at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry,
I am not there; I did not die.

Love & Best wishes,

Mary Elizabeth Frye

Well, this really does complicate matters! If these poets who have inspired me aren’t dead, what am I supposed to call them? I don’t know but I will definitely try to tread more gently, being more sensitive and aware of their perspective. That just because they died, it might not mean they’re dead. Not dead dead, anyway.

Don’t things have a habit of getting complicated once you lift off the lid? That’s why I never lift the bonnet of my car and stay well away from the engine. Somehow that car seems to run quite well by itself. Or, could it possibly have a guardian angel called Geoff?

So, before I delve any further into the semantics of it all, I’m going to exit stage left and introduce you to our first “dead” poet.

xx Rowena

Our Border Collie Bilbo out on the mud flats. No doubt he is looking for his tennis ball. He doesn't care about the view and certainly tries to avoid the water.

The Thinker: Our Border Collie Bilbo out walking at low tide.

I AM FOREVER walking upon these shores,
Betwixt the sand and the foam,
The high tide will erase my foot-prints,
And the wind will blow away the foam.
But the sea and the shore will remain

Kahlil Gibran.

Poem: Surfing in the Hour Glass



I wonder

whether surfers live forever,

eternally riding the golden wave…

caught up

in some kind of perpetual motion,

the constant, rhythmic  rolling of the sea?

I don’t know.

Summer, autumn, winter and spring

and even when the ocean’s wild with rage,

they’re always surfing.

Season after season,

year after year,

merging into an eternal wave.



they’re perched

on the very edge of the world…


after wave

after wave,

thirsting for the big one.

I’m sure the very same surfers

were here last year

and even decades past.

They all look pretty much the same.

Dream the same dreams

although the girls are also out there now

no longer content just watching

the iron men from the beach.

They also want a piece of the action!

The car park has also changed.

Most of the kombis have rusted

and have gone to hippy heaven,

although their spirits still live on.


there’s still this timelessness,

as though the sand has somehow

by-passed the hour glass.

Time has stood still,

so very, very still

and is barely breathing at all.

For the surfers are still out there

burning under the blazing, summer sun.

Perched on their boards

like a pod of bobbing seals,

they’re waiting.


Still waiting

for the perfect wave.

Breathing in and out in time

with the great, deep lungs of the sea.

They are almost one.



a lone dog lies

waiting on the beach…

perpetually waiting

with patient devotion.

His loving eyes glued

only to his master.

He never complains.

Doesn’t count the minutes,

hours, days and decades

and just wags his tail

happy and content

whenever Dad returns.

After all, a surfer’s dog

is a breed of its own.

I can’t help wondering whether

the poor dog’s ever been fed.

Wave after wave,

comes and goes

and he’s seemingly been parked

on the beach forever

like an abandoned wreck.

He hasn’t budged.

No one’s even offered him a bone.

He’s just waiting,

almost hibernating in the summer sun.

Waiting for the wave,

which never seems to come.

Waiting for the wave,

which will bring his master home.