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 ©