In Memorial

Barbara

When friends are taken, their spirits fly high

But we are left in grief, wondering why

As time passes the hurts are part healed

But a space inside us remains unfulfilled

 

Some times the bond that linked us in life

Can still not be cut by the grim reaper’s knife

I had such a friend, surely an angel was she

Ignoring the mask’ she saw the real me

 

A friend, a sculptor, an amateur painter

A tutor of music, no one could constrain her

One of life’s butterflies she’d not settle long

Adding new phrases to her life’s whirlwind song

 

Piano and music she endeavoured to teach

But as good as her skills were, it was out of my reach

I struggled with minim, crotchets and quaver

Her patience and focus, not once did she waver

 

I owe her so much; I can thump out a tune

It takes only two minutes before I clear the room

To poetry and verse she once turned her hand

So good was her work, a book she then planned

 

Its now my turn as I try to make verse

I’m sure some of the work is not mine, but is hers

From that ethereal plane that resides so afar

I still fell the presence of dear Barbara

 

Unlike Poe’s dear lady, the sweet Lenore

Whose words we have heard of nevermore

The thoughts of sweet Barbara will often enthuse

As she will forever, be my first muse

The Author's own Epitaph (not in use yet)

Here below, lies Tony Hibberd
Sought humour in life’s twisting path
A jester he, that capered and gibbered
Until death itself had the final laugh