Where now the horse and the rider? Where is the horn that was blowing?
Where is the helm and the hauberk, and the bright hair flowing?
Where is the hand on the harpstring, and the red fire glowing?
Where is the spring and the harvest and the tall corn growing?
They have passed like rain on the mountain, like a wind in the meadow;
The days have gone down in the West behind the hills into shadow.
Who shall gather the smoke of the dead wood burning,
Or behold the flowing years from the Sea returning?
I was tempted to read this at one of Miles’s memorials, but I know I wouldn’t be able to do it without making a blubbery ass of myself. Those who did speak or read at those gatherings didn’t need me, anyway — they were all beautiful and perfect.
There are specific parts of this poem that particularly resonate with me and my memories of Miles — the bright hair flowing, the horn that was blowing — but it also echoes the deep, rattling grief and sadness of loss. He won’t be here to behold the flowing years, and nobody could behold like Miles did. His photographs attest to that.
I miss you, boy.
It is customary for the mourners to sit on low stools, or even the floor, symbolic of the emotional reality of being “brought low” by the grief.
There should be a kind of awkward tension whenever a journalist walks into a room that politicians are in, because you should’ve done things that annoyed them in the past. It’s the same as a comedian. You’re no one’s friend.
And the Sun will leave your room
And leave you to the night
And that’s alright
We who rescue others,
Lovers, sons and mothers
Now we feel like the orphans ourselves
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