he would have been fifty

and now the memory the choice of the right words
we have to go one day but now we measure loss
in unsung powers in dragons in the arriving birds
all that we read is gold he stripped away the dross
and left us tales and poems made with such art
that we could not see it each word each human tale
found its true lodging in each mind and heart
we want his memory as a light that must not fail
the story's told we know that yet all that we desire
is to reread it to make it seem bright and new
to raise once more within each soul the fire
to give the praise and honour that he was due
for one brief moment forget there's no more writ
and just rejoice in his warmth and his wit