This man's life was a series of awkward pauses,
Hesitations,
Remonstrations and muddling.
It was the confused half-smile,
Rising from the leather chair
With a hand extended, but weakly shook.
He sat and watched his Lady's picture
With worried eyes.
A grey man in a brown room.

You, you, you.
The girl with white gloves
Who danced on the clover
And grinned in the sun.
You stroked the elm's bark,
Made good some promises,
And slipped through granite,
Lined up like graves from Flanders.

But these are petty eulogies.
Measuring a life in words
Makes the words far too bitter.