The Bed Of Dying Man

Image of Camelot, from the Mabinogion – Welsh Mythology

Sat low at the bed of dying man

In a wicker chair made for one.

Resting on the walls of the black fort

Smokes linger from the burner

And we shiver far from warmth.


Images of you flicker in the fire

With the sun on your face

Gold grey and filled with grace,

Wondering where is god’s hand

In all this pain unraveling.


Outside robins sing for seed,

There is no gate only hinges

And a seasons passing whispers.

Colder breezes settle in

With unknown shivers.


No more creaks this winter

Or fears to stomach with gin,

Your waistcoat is well worn

And floral woven.

Crafted from fine oak beams

The cracks in your face show a deeper


As they burgeon with a new dawns light.


You are leaving this garden for good,

A flower returning to the womb speaking of

Unspeakable love,

As your noble heart murmurs briefly

In the sparkles behind your eyes,

No words are needed then.


You danced this merry dream

Wearing your soul on your sleeves,

Rolled up in aged orchards

And ever rolling on and on,

Just a ripple in the stream.


You marked this landscape

With your love.

Your impression was strong and true like

The noblest of footprints,

Like the grip of a woodsman

On the falling axe.


Your music left us

With your rocking chair still rocking

Which makes us cry

Because you sat there and read maps

And told tales.


Who rings that bell?

You gave more than you took

And shared your peace

Like a lamp shares light,

And loved each one as a brother,

Welcomed all to your fireside.


Oh merciful bow!

Brother you seek too much,

Reaching for broken arrows.

You were here too long,

Alas not long enough.


For Pete


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