Fay Slimm.

Stolen

 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.