Short days ago, we lived,
felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
loved and were loved.
Owen said it better than me,
Another Poet, in another place,
that land between the rivers invoked Elliott,
to tell me of his love,
but those were happy times,
when love was born, took root and grew,
in that green and black place of fear.
We were warriors both.
We won our battles, together
but my poet has gone.
His poor pen will scratch no more
in our Kevlar world.
Morning star has gone. It was too good.
People like us aren’t meant to be in what they call
the real world