Beyond the Fellgate,
over yellow Celandines,
your boy legs must be pumping,
arms reaching,
to a Cumbrian sky
the color of Hoegaarden.
Someone calls out "Neaw lad,
where ar yo beawn so fast?"
but still you run on, smiling
because no one can catch you.
I wonder if you have forgotten
your curries, boiling pots of rice,
sounds of boxing on the television,
steadily clicking computer keys.
Your voice was the hand on my shoulder.
I'm missing you even though
I've never seen your stubbled face
or the way you might have slowly smiled
at some idiocy.
You signed off "Stay Happy"
as if it were a choice.
I know that it must be
now that you are gone.