Anthony was a brilliant and prolific writer, he dismissed his early work on short stories as training, the honing of his skills for what would become his passion, some would say obsession: poetry. Over nearly three decades, he sent me hundreds of poems, sometimes up to 30, 40 drafts before reaching perfection; their subjects many and varied:- His love of life often expressed in his finding what he called “a beautiful meaning” in the small things around him. His deep and profound connection with London and its people; he described the city as “smelling of creation”. He wrote with wit and playfulness, with delicacy of feeling and insight about the vagaries of life, about death and about love, always love.
During his final days at home I read to him the draft of his last poem, written just 2 weeks before, called Sleeping Stones; these unintended monuments, he wrote, that speak not of death but of the loss of life. His voice barely audible, he said he was sorry there were would be no more poems, but he was happy with the final draft.