Not Dead

 Walking through trees to cool my heat and pain, 
I know that David’s with me here again.
 
All that is simple, happy, strong, he is.
 
Caressingly I stroke 
Rough bark of the friendly oak.

A brook goes bubbling by: the voice is his.
 
Turf burns with pleasant smoke; 
I laugh at chaffinch and at primroses.
 
All that is simple, happy, strong, he is.
 
Over the whole wood in a little while
Breaks his slow smile.

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