An old-fashioned sonority

Photo by Rhodi Alers de Lopez on Unsplash

My friend is dead.

I met him here

He was wise,

But he was not clear

About anything — afar or near.

For which I was grateful.

I try to hold him clear in mind -

on the random wildwind strain -

where we hear old notes playing -

I maintain the glory of his voice, his name,

But I have a sick dread of a fading

Time, unmaintained by love or rhyme.