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funeral poem

sitting in his rocker waiting for your tea
we lay
love me at last, or if you will not
as a white candle
a thousand silent years ago
now for a brisk and cheerful fight
uplifting, as the wind blew
there is no flock, however watched and tended
in mournful numbers
when i was broke in london
a storm is riding on the tide
three years ago today

 



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