Terry Pratchett (1948-2015)

I sprinted through every book
you wrote, every paragraph,
line and word, whole pages skipped
with barely a second look.
Oh, you were sharp, kind, and wicked!
You always made me laugh.

Then I forgot all about you.
That stuff has its limits, I guess
or else I needed the friction
of real life to work through
even (perhaps especially) in fiction.
Pure fantasy is a mess

yet most stories lose their power.
It's no one’s fault: a writer
is a kind of friend or guide
who walks with you an hour
or two. When your paths divide
you move on a little lighter.

So, it should’ve been no surprise
books I used to treasure
would fade or even change
or that I’d barely recognise
myself in them. But it’s strange.
You're not who you were.

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First published in About Larkin, the journal of the Philip Larkin Society. The form (and subject) owes something to Larkin’s poem ‘A Study of Reading Habits’.