Goodbye Muhammad

Impossible

that death should finally KO

The Greatest.

We thought he’d be here

always – older and slower, yes,

but still with that smile

lurking in his eyes.

But he taught us

nothing is impossible.

He said that. He showed us,

living his life

on his own terms.

Ah, but death 

sets its own terms too.

Ali is already

two and a half weeks gone,

with his dancing feet 

and his stinging fists,

his wicked words

and his beauty …

his proud head, even in age.

The people of his home

say they remember 

a child who never gave up,

they remember the young hero,

and most of all they recall

the private years 

of a kind, wise old man.

The early dark comes down.

It’s winter solstice here.

We are already a little past

full moon. Brightness

waxes and wanes,

but the good 

don’t always die young.

Written for the latest Tuesday Platform at 'imaginary garden with real toads'. We were asked if we had written anything on the passing of Muhammad Ali. I hadn't – I thought Gail Hennessy's tribute said it perfectly, and far more economically than this – but, since we were invited....