Here beside the river of sand my mind
Is drawn to Belgian friends, the Renards,
Roel and Marie, who used to haul me to
The Flemish alps where bird hunters marched
Fields and fencerows, double barrels-at ready,
While good dog Nop kept me company.
We would drink red wine at night and debate
The world’s conditions, fashioning
Solutions we could never recall
The morning after, all those brain cells gone,
Lysed by alcohol, unrecovered
An eternal loss the world won’t suspect.
I miss my friends as I sit by the river
Thinking of them and their trout stream nearby.
Corporate monies brought us together
And realities of age an pensions
Now keep us separated
But only in geographical terms.
Life advances, memories of friends
Growing richer with age, like vintage wine
Without fond memories death already
Grasps us, seeks to turn us to old dust.