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Essence

I saw his spirit soaring
In the reflection of a stream,
I turned and looked about me…
Was this a mourner’s dream?
I thought I heard him laughing,
As the wind blew wild and free,
In truth, had he really been there?
Walking beside me?
“It’s not the destination,
but the journey on our way…”
I swear, I heard him sing that,
His song, a sweet bouquet.
The scent of it does linger,
Fragrance new from every flower…
Pulsing with my heart beat,
Every minute…every hour.

Written for Ray, poet & friend
of John Davies