I thought I would learn Latin,
because it was a language that you loved,
and because it seemed to me,
in my ignorance, a great language for
farewells, all those departures:
for Germania's frozen forests,
the treacherous sands of Persia or,
eternally, the dusky plains.
You were waiting for the ferry.
You had your passage booked. Just
at the turning of the tide you slipped
away. We did not see you off.
The household spirits, among whom now
I number you, will settle softly
around the hearth. We'll pour some wine
and think you present, benevolent.
If you have any thoughts on this poem,
David Callin would be pleased to hear them.