To John Baldock, on a visit to his grave 9th June 2020.
I drive along the rolling road,
Beneath the sun between the trees,
Familiar are the turns and hills
My life with you threw us upon,
The winding way the narrow paths,
And as I drive they are now gone.
I drive across those curling roads,
I see your face between the stones,
I hear your voice when I get there,
Your deep dark eyes at me will stare.
The road is there, the trees grown long,
Their lofty branches full of song,
But once a joyful testament,
Now it is a sad lament.
I reach your door, I ring the bell,
And you will say, “not feeling well.”
I take your hand and cross the line,
I know we do not have much time,
You take the hand I took away,
You do not blame me for that day,
But now your door’s a wicket gate,
Which creeks and rattles in the wind,
Your entrance is of gothic stone,
There is no one at home.
And six feet down a secret lies,
That no one knows and no one knew,
Or understood what we went through
And how I said goodbye to you.