In the cold grey light of dawn
You lay silent on the path,
Cold in your unexpected end,
Your coat still glossy soft
As if you hadn’t died at all
But had simply stopped to rest.
No marks despoiled your silvered sides;
No harsh distortion disfiguring
Your face or limbs in any way
From how you were in life;
And must have been that moment when,
From scurrying vigour you passed
To stillness; this peaceful death.
Was it cold that ushered you along?
Or age that let your heart give out
And stop as you were running
Down my garden path?
We’ll never know, but here’s a little grave
I’ve dug to give you everlasting rest.
John Hancock ©