An old-fashioned sonority
My friend is dead.
I met him here
He was wise,
But he was not clear
About anything - afar or near.
For which I was grateful.
I try to hold him clear in mind -
on the random wildwind strain
where we hear old notes playing -
I maintain the glory of his voice, his name,
But I have a sick dread of a fading
Time, unmaintained by love or rhyme.