Tribute to a much missed poet-friend.
Like a shuttle in lace-makers' fingers
the thread has flown, the bubble burst.
Time ended when sand that had lingered
trickled too fast as the hourglass upturned.
Like a ripple moving its last on the lake
the song is sung, the swan is now gone.
Ink dried when he became past, forsaken
the blurring verses for sight was near done.
Like a battle begun by stalwart hands
the race has been run, the passion cold.
Hearts wept as courage made its last stand
and the finalé of Lost-in-France became told.