Night Comes Poem by Edward Clapham

Night comes, the dark cloak that has swirled
In the winds of living fleetingly hiding the light,
Now drapes the bed on which you lie.
You lived more than the year you foretold;
Tenacity, obstinacy, lust for life, all holding
You together, sharp witted to the end.
But the strength of the marathon runner,
The determination to build high above
A spare childhood in impoverished times
All fade, withering as a leaf starved of water
In winter's cold grasp.
Now only memories remain, fragments of
A life lived well, shining candles of
Admiration, respect, someone to aspire to be.

"Bunny" RIP 27th February 2017