Comfort My Troubled Soul (Rev.) Poem by Margaret Alice

Terry Pratchett doesn’t write his
books for me, I know, he writes
a message for everybody. Yet I
depend on him for magic and the
humour of marvelous absurdity

his latest book is written with a
different purpose in mind, no magic,
no escapism, no enchantment; the
sadness overwhelms me. I regarded
him a friend – a fellow conspirator

it used to be alternatives to confining
reality – now he woos a different audience
which made my world so much smaller -
took a kindred spirit away, left me bereft;
one friend less

luckily ‘Johnny and the Bomb’ is sitting
right in front of me, and at home, ‘Wyrd
Sisters’, is waiting to be reread; these
book and their stories will always
comfort my troubled soul…