An evening inked in purple , as wewalked Through slow-hour summer by the still canal Last bird calls hanging on the threads of light Hushed cattle at the end of days long field And on the dusk, the herons silent wing Ghosted the waters breast to curve , and fade Grey herald of the spell and rise of moon To leave us without words, a dying dream
That summer which you did not live to see We raised our glasses to you on the lawn And saw the same wings beat across our sky Fly past in salutation to the west And onward , to the sunset of goodbye Twilight came down , but with us still you fly
Another old poem , written for a dear friend who left us much too young , much to soon...