It was the twelfth of May,
and night wore silence like a cloak.
The stars, untroubled by modern glare,
breathed quietly upon your birthright—
a cradle woven not of silver spoons,
but wind through orchard bough.
You came, I imagine, with dusk’s permission—
as supper cooled on earthen plates,
and chapel bells dimmed in twilight hush.
Somewhere, children prayed like sparrows:
without doctrine, without shame, only wonder,
offered up like crumbs.
And there you stood—or would—
speaking to daffodils and grieving yew trees,
your voice a covenant with the simple,
with all things that endure softly.
My father heard you first
through page and candlelight,
and passed that flame to me.
Now I walk where screens pulse,
not stars, but still, in the hush before sleep,
I hear you measure footfalls across a lake
that mirrors nothing but itself.
In your lines, the world slows
just long enough to be forgiven.