In memoriam Peter Levelle - a poem by Chris Wilkins
How long ago now must it be? Half a lifetime by the calendar
Where were we, exactly? There were islands, wedges of rock
Breaking surface across the slippery shimmering Aegean
Those island names indelibly scrawled in memory
The neural ink still wet, even after all these years.
On Hydra we chartered a nineteen-thirties cabin cruiser
All mahogany and salt-pitted brasswork, pushed off at dawn
Threading our way between sleeping gulls, to moor off Poros.
We had a film to make - a three-day shoot had been the plan
But the cloudless Grecian vault and unblinking solar stare
Had gifted us by teatime all the footage we could ever need.
Steaming back, the sun winching ever lower in our wake
The Director, Peter Levelle, most cultivated of men.
Cracked open a bottle or two in celebration of our luck,
Producing from his backpack, like some holy relic
A scratched and faded compact disc.
The sound crew fell upon it, cranked up their playback kit
And the whole company fell abruptly motionless on deck
Ambushed by the splendour of the Monteverdi Vespers.
That was the moment the dolphins surfaced, a pod of five
Bouncing and spinning across the bow waves either side
Say what you will about the capricious nature of rapture
We shared it then, with the Monteverdi and the dolphins.
Nobody spoke, nobody moved, one or two of us wept.
From time to time I run across a member of that blessed crew
And whatever our discourse the moment always comes when
We remember.
And the question arises, could we go again?
A sad thought because, although we might contrive to land
Back there, we shall never, ever, find ourselves back then.