The flag that hung half-mast today

Seemed animate with being

As if it knew for who it flew

And will no more be seeing.

He loved each corner of the links-

The stream at the eleventh,

The grey-green bents, the pale sea-pinks,

The prospect from the seventh;

To the ninth tee the uphill climb,

A grass and sandy stairway,

And at the top the scent of thyme

And long extent of fairway.

He knew how on a summer day

The sea’s deep blue grew deeper,

How evening shadows over Bray

Made that round hill look steeper.

He knew the ocean mists that rose

And seemed for ever staying,

When moaned the foghorn from Trevose

And nobody was playing;

The flip of cards on winter eves,

The whisky and the scoring,

As trees outside were stripped of leaves

And heavy seas were roaring.

He died when early April light

Showed red his garden sally

And under pale green spears glowed white

His lillies of the valley;

The garden where he used to stand

And where the robin waited

To fly and perch upon his hand

And feed till it was sated.

The Times would never have the space

For Ned’s discreet achievements;

The public prints are not the place

For intimate bereavements.

A gentle guest, a willing host,

Affection deeply planted –

It’s strange that those we miss the most

Are those we take for granted.



 

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