I completely digress for a moment, I came across this poem in a wonderful book called The Smokejumpers by Nicholas Evans a year or so ago, I lent the book out with the instruction to pass it on.....read it if you get a chance. This poem is anonymous, but I chanced on it again today and wanted to share it. It's a great comfort for anyone coping with loss, please pass it on. Apologies for any morbidity, it' s nice to find something devoid of religious connotations.
Walk Within You
If I be the first of us to die, Let grief not blacken long your sky.
Be bold yet modest in your grieving. There is a change but not a leaving.
For just as death is part of life, The dead live on forever in the living.
And all the gathered riches of our journey,
The moments shared, the mysteries explored, The steady layering of intimacy stored,
The things that made us laugh or weep or sing, The joy of sunlit snow or first unfurling of the spring,
The wordless language of look and touch, The knowing, Each giving and each taking,
These are not flowers that fade, Nor trees that fall and crumble,
Nor are they stone,
For even stone cannot the wind and rain withstand And mighty mountain peaks in time reduce to sand.
What we were, we are. What we had, we have.
A conjoined past imperishably present.
So when you walk the wood where once we walked together
And scan in vain the dappled bank beside you for my shadow,
Or pause where we always did upon the hill to gaze across the land,
And spotting something, reach by habit for my hand,
And finding none, feel sorrow start to steal upon you, Be still.
Close your eyes. Breathe.
Listen for my footfall in your heart. I am not gone but merely walk within you.
Walk Within You
If I be the first of us to die, Let grief not blacken long your sky.
Be bold yet modest in your grieving. There is a change but not a leaving.
For just as death is part of life, The dead live on forever in the living.
And all the gathered riches of our journey,
The moments shared, the mysteries explored, The steady layering of intimacy stored,
The things that made us laugh or weep or sing, The joy of sunlit snow or first unfurling of the spring,
The wordless language of look and touch, The knowing, Each giving and each taking,
These are not flowers that fade, Nor trees that fall and crumble,
Nor are they stone,
For even stone cannot the wind and rain withstand And mighty mountain peaks in time reduce to sand.
What we were, we are. What we had, we have.
A conjoined past imperishably present.
So when you walk the wood where once we walked together
And scan in vain the dappled bank beside you for my shadow,
Or pause where we always did upon the hill to gaze across the land,
And spotting something, reach by habit for my hand,
And finding none, feel sorrow start to steal upon you, Be still.
Close your eyes. Breathe.
Listen for my footfall in your heart. I am not gone but merely walk within you.
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