Sometimes I think of the Land’s End I never took you to,
with nothing in the distance but an ending that was preferable,
unafraid of the sea, Waterman, you were born for the rivers of the island
that loved you, yet then again, the age that bore you, had faded, now,
like the sepia colour of a photograph or the newspaper, saved,
for a keepsake of VE Day – and the time you were fit for, not yet come,
of a golden age, for Sage, were you not one?
Quiet and mellow of thoughts, never found out a fool,
in your youth, both red headed and beautiful,
your insights and predictions, all true,
that sometimes I think of the Land’s End I never took you to
and the crashing of waves, that never found you out,
before sickness overwhelmed, like a rogue-waves’ wakeful bout,
whose unforecast storms could not even vanquish you then,
for you, your selfsame self, remained, to the very end, true friend
and how I miss you, sometimes and then, again,
I think of the Land’s End, that I never took you to,
where we might have gone together.