Greg Poole

My friend Greg Poole, wildlife artist, died yesterday. Just before Christmas he suffered a heart attack that put him into a coma from which he would not emerge.

We met at the end of our teens. He took me to the sea, and we lay on our bellies on a grassy embankment overlooking the mudflats where small wading birds scuttled. He named them with ease, pointing out old acquaintances. In zoology lectures we sat together. I scribbled my notes in neat black biro, preparing for a life between the lines. Greg filled empty white sheets with coloured hieroglyphs from felt tip pens. He would spend the rest of his life taking notes: simple lines describing forms and movements observed in nature - experiences difficult to communicate; bold blocks and dabs of colour that made you feel the sun reflected onto your face and the wind pushing against your back, leaving the taste of seaweed and humus in your nostrils and the sound of birdsong in your ears.

Last year I bought five paintings from Greg - bright acrylic monkeys painted on a forest floor in Uganda. I mailed him 'we have such a lot in common - we should meet more often'. But we never met again. Now I have only his reply for solace:

"Out along river Chew yesterday and surprisingly big nature haul... dipper, kingfisher and grey wagtail... peregrines chasing overhead... and on the ground lots of mining bees (I think yellow legged but not sure) with associated nomad bees and bee flies. Huge numbers of green dock beetles defoliating the docks... wonder whether these are introduced by farmer...?"

Bye Greg. Most of us spend our lives looking, but you spent your time seeing.

https://gregpoole.co.uk/short-profile/interview/