A Fistful of Poetry
Sunday, May 31, 2009
The driving morning rain blinded
but if, at first, we could not see the way ahead,
we surely found it come the end of day.
The tears we held at bay
were selfish tears,
for all the missing years,
for chances gone astray.
With one bright square of blue sky,
he repelled all grey,
smiled, reached out his hand
knowing death could never take him,
for to each and every one of us
he had long since gifted himself away.
For John Smiddy, an inspiration to all who knew him and for Jane, Jack, Ed, Alice and all the other countless keepers of the flame.
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