I’m going to remember today,
the 11th, when leaves on
the Himalayan birch were
coming out for Easter.

And the day before on a birthday,
first one after his passing, when I
took time to look at online photos,
ones I’d seen before, and others of

familiar things like playing cribbage;
also that frailty I hadn’t seen close up,
being away all these years – and not
surprised, but prompted how I cared.

In this lockdown I’ve spoken much
about caring: out loud, so to speak, in
writing and social media shares, and
deep within the wider silences of all

around and my own thoughts, how this
government doesn’t with its deflections,
evasions and unwillingness to empathise,
that nerve of mine once more nudged.

Saw it written and I saw it say
Pink moon is on its way
And none of you stand so tall
Pink moon gonna get ye all
And it’s a pink moon
Hey it’s a pink moon
Pink, pink, pink, pink, pink moon
Pink, pink, pink, pink, pink moon
I saw it written and I saw it say
Pink moon is on its way
And none of you stand so tall
Pink moon gonna get ye all
It’s a pink moon
Yea, it’s a pink moon

© Nick Drake

[On the 250th anniversary of his birth, with thanks to Harry Gilonis]