The Death of Wes Herd

From half a continent away
The confirming call comes
That my old friend's great friend is gone.

The grief is not well hidden
In that voice I know so well
Deer hunting and time will prove therapeutic
For me it was a story:

With his death on Thursday on Tuesday
A blue grass band came to wish Wes well
He got out of his bed and played the spoons.

Blue Grass and love
An alliance more powerful
Than even the spectre of death.

poem by Bill Grace
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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