Terry Pratchett? I was stunned. We had Radio One on in work all day, with news every half hour or so. All day – well between 9am and about 2pm, the news was about the survey of young voters that had been carried out about the upcoming election. Then all of a sudden, Terry Pratchett is dead. What? Just, what? I nearly cried in work.
Here is a poem.
When I was younger,
I needed fantasy to be me.
I never felt so free as when lost
in ink-stained forests for hours,
worlds with ogres and giants
and talking trees,
horror stories and mysteries.
My favourite literary wood,
would that I could call it a wood,
more likely a giant oval forest
that spilled over the edge of the earth,
had wizards from the Unseen University,
witches, cats, talking knockers and Death.
A beautiful world set in a beautiful universe.
You could take that universe and grind it down
to the finest powder and sieve it through the
finest sieve. You may not find one
atom of justice, one molecule of mercy. Yet,
you would find in the nucleus of every atom,
at the heart of everything, a kindness, a genius
that is bound to the universe eternally.