High Langwith
Where distant hills like waves retreat and fade,
And lose themselves in blues washed out to grey,
And clouds pass shadow hands across the moor,
The tracks converge and part, and time
Means nothing here.
And here I hear the echoes of our heartbeats and our song,
And know that you and I will live forever in this summer haze
And dance upon this turf long after we are gone.
read at the funeral by Jane Henshaw