In Memoriam: Michael Foster -
by Frank Collymore.

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FATED to turn to the dark hour
......From desperate youth, his voice
Still echoes across the pulsing scene
He loved; his mind, unravaged
By the stark disaster, seeks other fields.

How pity his passing? How mourn
The boy who, sidetracked in the maze,
Knew he was trapped, who looked beyond
The trim conventionalities,
Seeking the hidden answer to his quest?

It wasn’t easy: the sores of the world
Festered in his dreams; awoke sometimes
With horror his companion.
Living was dying; only
The ever-restless sea brought rest.

The long days on the beach, the endless
Waiting. There was no answer. The world
Was more than history, and there was that tortured
Figure on a cross … Could he capture some meaning
In colour or in words? He tried.

The sea rolls on, the traffic speeds its way,
The voice is stilled. Only echoes
From beyond the darkness, the fruit
Of a young life plucked soon, too soon,
But ripening ever on the tree of time.