It is as if, being dead, you owned a lightness
out of the compass of this night, our day.
In this small zone, a minute-by-minute triteness
grits in the eye of vision, keeps at bay
a further sight. An unmistakeable rightness
the labouring soul gives light to as it may . . .
occurring, like a spark, in its own brightness –
the very thing that you would do or say.
No-one as humble, none more modest lived.
Who strongly worked and deeply thought, a man
whose fortitude will never die. I can
at last see unafraid what you believed:
the further power of loving, and being loved.
A star is sparkling that your going began.