the Book of Pain

Another good man has gone to his good grave,
his dim days dim now no more.
Below the blue sky, the green bush trims the stream
while the water shushes over the old dam.
In the cool shadows, fat speckled trout glide to and fro
and hide from us just beneath the foam.
We do not fish, not here anymore,
that world is long gone and so nearly too are we.
But he is still there, of this I am sure,
waiting and smiling and fishing evermore,
where he was ever most happy—I am sure.

This poem is dedicated to Mark Higgins, my father’s dearest friend who died in April, 2007;  he was 81 years old.

When I was growing up Mark was very much an uncle to me and I loved him very much. He was a quiet, sweet, gentle man, a logger by trade who was happiest in…

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