Letter to Nick Drake: a life within song and album titles

By way of introduction, 

I believe you thought in colours,

Given a flower would smell yellow,

Rather than sweet.

Your way to blue came with the Saturday Sun, 

Which brought at first a life made to love magic, 

And the power to conjure up your ‘cello song, 

While comfortable in the thoughts of Mary Jane. 

But there were things behind the Sun, 

Which foretold of your life having just five leaves left, 

And that the fruit tree you plant would thrive, 

Only after the day is done.

Saturday moved to Sunday, 

And opportunity awaited you in London, 

Promising not so much a life in Mayfair, 

But hopes of bryter layter. 

The forecast was wrong, 

For your northern sky darkened, 

As Mary Jane gave way to hazey Jane, 

In parts 1 and 2.

And reluctant to blow your horn in public, 

You became a man in a shed, 

Eating nothing, a friend observed, 

But solid air. 

Whether as a parasite on the street, 

Or as a poor boy left hanging on a star, 

You saw your dreams fall from you, 

Like clothes of sand.

The day moved to Monday, 

The Moon’s day, 

And a menacing pink Moon at that, 

With a knowing black eyed dog in its wake. 

Wanting to fly, to elude the Hell Hound at your door, 

You took off on a free ride, 

Driving for hours at night, 

Only to return to its gaze. 

To stay the black dog, you even thought to tow the line,

By taking a proper job, a regular job, 

One of these things first before music, 

But this failure you couldn’t accept. 

Rising from the morning as part of a harvest breed, 

To greet the day’s drudgery at the chime of a city clock, 

Was not the life you envisaged,

Or the heaven you sought.

For once you wanted to be the rider on the wheel, 

Able to choose your own road, 

Despite all the voices calling you, 

To go elsewhere. 

And now, with you ferried by the river man to the time of no reply, 

We are left to argue as to which will, by accident or intent, 

Brought you to your final place to be, 

Where Joey tends your wreaths.

As foreseen, your fame bloomed, 

From the grave that was not forgotten,

And your music grew too, 

Beyond the three hours that you might have approved. 

With your life and our imagination joined, 

Your music and folklore are forever entangled, 

And by way of farewell, know, 

That time has told me so.