Harold Thompson
Was a friend of mine
He retired from a job
In the city
To a hobby farm
Outside the village
Of Port Elmsley
He poked away at
Raising chickens
Fishing growing a garden
More fishing and
Minding his orchard
Harold was going on 77
On July eighth
A bright summer's day
He put on his fedora
Got in his Toyota
And headed for town
Around the second bend
He had a head on collision
With a tractor trailer truck
He died instantly
The truck driver
Was not hurt
Autopsy said
He'd had a heart attack
And was dead
Before impact
Some said
It's not the way to go
But maybe it is
Given the other possibilities
I've seen as a physician.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem