In front of the fire after dinner
we talk of the friends who have died
not saying, but of course thinking,
why them, but not us, when we’ve lied

and we’ve failed and betrayed and we’ve squandered
just as much as the shadows we mourn
while we sit by the fire in the winter
while the fire keeps the two of us warm.

Maybe when we wake a few embers
will still glow in the ashen grate
and we’ll kindle new flames till the evening
the darkness to illustrate.

Tom Vaughan

If you have any thoughts about this poem, 
Tom Vaughan would be pleased to hear them.