We talked for a while, the great Detective writer and I
about his work, the meaning of crime
in the fields of Oxfordshire
and the bounty involved with novel murder,
between the pages,
in one sentence, the last moment of a book’s life
should be that the suspect is named
with a gasp and then nothing
else to follow,
with perhaps the damning of yet another
advert or list of books that the voyeur,
the seer of slaughter and unlawful death,
must own, at least
to complete the collection of a writer’s life
and the hero, the heroine, the nark, the duty bound,
the law abiding, the law breaker, the thief, the scoundrel,
the ones left alive to suffer in their grief
or quietly pay homage to the fallen.
We talked for a while, He and I,
I was but a full stop,
He was my opening chapter.
In memory of Colin Dexter.
Ian D. Hall 2017.