HIS FINE PURE FLAME

His name is not gone, though
heaven was wanton and eager
to claim, yet
I know him in whispers from
the mystery place, from the
worlds deep in realms
Where his light fills all space

And his colours
Are not gone
He has lent them to robin to
wear against cold
To warm up the morns
when all winter take's hold
And his song, still the
sweetest, is sang by jet
birds
At dusk when the sun can 
no longer be heard, no...

He is not gone, though heaven
was wanton and eager to claim
And the angels in love 
With his fine pure flame, for
I hear him in whispers from the
worlds we both knew
In the ancient past times,
before
This earth turned blue, no...
He is not gone

M P 23/5/21