The death of Cilla Black heralds the passing of an
age; was it perhaps an inward looking rage, those
years where we sought expression of the ‘unique’
and singular sense of whom we knew we were, at
risk of dependancy suggesting we ‘naturally’ need
be the same on a stage of cloned individuality; it’s
past-tense anyway - dredging depths of our 70s -
but the resurgent memories are cogent and fresh
It is easy to hear her voice unchanged - songs as
lucid now as they were then, passions expressed
no less ‘dramatically’ than the first day she sang -
and we all rest in the peace she created when we
perceived her sanctuary; Priscilla Maria Veronica
White, bless you - and most of all - thank you
© 3 August 2015, I. D. Carswell
In memory of Cilla Black (27 May 1943 – 1 August 2015)
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