On a shelf under dust,
with chargers and disks
lies a book, overlooked
where your scribblings survive.

In a Spanish note-book
amongst unfinished work
lives an elf armed with knives and a bow.
Across pages he sneaks,
crossing lands on light feet
and I wonder what language he speaks.

There are battles you drew
between armies of ants
armed with swords,
beetle tanks,
now forgotten in drawers,
in the midst of a war.

Signs of Tolkein’s I find,
Tintin, Halo and Shrek,
all adapted and changed by your hand.
Amongst papers in piles,
Slow maturing in style
unknown worlds that were part of your life.

Dhaka 2014

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