A poem instead

A fine fast run through the woods this morning and then back for a respite from the endless carousel of the news media. So, instead, a poem & a wee drawing:

Going without Saying

(i.m. Joe Flynn)

by Bernard O’Donoghue

It is a great pity we don’t know

When the dead are going to die

So that, over a companionable

Drink, we could tell them

How much we liked them.

Happy the man who, dying, can 

place his hand on his heart and say:

“At least I didn’t forget to tell

The thrush how beautifully she sings”

Thanks, Donald.