Lit shock, lit loss, lit widowhood. A twinkle in your eye. It seemed such times were all encore . While you, most generous of hosts, Had so much yet to do, and give. To build a bridge across the void.
Words make no sense.
We thought we'd time, but we were wrong. We will not meet at Hogmanay. The leafless thorns no longer flame. Mechanically, a curlew calls From Dod Hill Wood to Kirkhouse clear. Hard by glebe-field and Quair, good friend, You lie, now, and you cannot hear.