(For: David.P.Crowe 1951-2014)
I had the thought he might be from
some still, deep well that has become
the primal source from which arise
the genuine, so-called, “Good Guys”.
Those souls, never enough of,
who hold this world’s wonder in their eyes.
He drinks, now, from a sweeter well,
and our peevish world spins a lesser tale,
more mundane and half a penny poorer.
The deep red tones of autumn, muted more,
the stiff winter wind more brittle now
and the cold, black nights longer than before.
Come spring, absent one slender vein of gold,
a perfect iris may spread its bloom,
yet, this year not quite so bold…
bereft of his genuine,
good, true soul.
