Stolen.
He liked taking time out of life,
getting things into perspective, assessing
his progress, inhaling scent-riddled
wisdom of heathered heath and breathing
the treat of empty quiet.
A rest is no penance when reaching the high
of unfenced moor-land he thought
so climbing to tops he often got lost
in ribbons of sunset or dawn to applaud,
sans sound, the voices of wilderness.
He adored stolen moments did my precious
brother before the thief
called Terminal took his last breath.