Bless you, Josh: "But thy eternal summer shall not fade, Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow'st, Nor shall death brag thou wander'st in his shade, When in eternal lines to time thou grow'st; So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see, So long lives this, and this gives life to thee." Sonnet 18

SWANSONG


Caught, you and I,
in pull and draw
of Stratford's rolling tides.

Our words remain
(like unerased scribbles)
the fluid tips on rippling waves;
the flotsam borne on
so much heavy water.

And here, now, there's a flood
that mingles salt and fresh
like blood upon my page...

Our friendship was a tether
which scarce could pin a lark;
sweet daisy-chain of poems
linked laughing, bardolatrous,
that lightly encircled
our overbent brows.

You are the early nascent Swan
that's steadily taking flight,
dark's grey plumage
turned to white.

And as your spread wings
eclipse the dawn
this broken heart's
released to sing:

Rising to the tuneful notes,
the triumph of your final song.