No Language In Our Lungs.

We gathered.

Somewhere between the house and the small winding creek, we sat or stood, thinking, meditating, waiting quietly on the clipped green grass. That was my first impression - how green everything was. For a moment I thought I saw him, but then realised it was his brother.

A small stage in front of a huge willow tree. Rows of chairs. Wife, daughter, family, friends, admirers. People spoke and music was played. A perfect soundtrack and commentary to an amazing life. On the way I'd listened to No Language In Our Lungs. Kind of a personal tribute, a song I know he loved and a sentiment I think he'd have appreciated. A moment shared privately between us. Once I'd arrived the moment stretched and was shared by all of us.

Taking a photo crossed my mind - for posterity. But somehow it seemed wrong, seemed intrusive into this private place, this sanctuary. For a short time this world was kindly opened to us, but it is still a home and a place for family to withdraw. The only photo I have is indelibly etched into my mind.

The sky was overcast, and yet over time I felt the back of my neck warming, my face tightening, my skin starting to burn as those Scottish genes failed me yet again. Here Comes The Sun indeed.

Later we sipped wine, nibbled at sandwiches and cakes and chatted. We talked of writing, the words, the past, the friendship, the people and the music.

And the man. Always the man.

And on the way home I wound down the windows and turned up the volume on Senses Working Overtime.

I have no doubt he'd have approved.