Spike is Best

Les Murray has died. How can one describe
the wound of silence left by a soul
so generous in his art that his soul
was always in all of it? A poet I always read
with delectable interest, feeling both strange and kin,
all verve, and nerve,
ongoing trance of reality - twinkle
in the eye freshly bruised.

To the glory of God
he dedicated every volume he wrote.

Forgive me, if I quote
for Les now, as he wrote when his father died:

Snobs mind us off religion
nowadays, if they can.
Fuck them. I wish you God.