By John Cory
He was a man
Who lived at water's edge
And loved both tide and sand and the feel of nature's breath
He knew a dream delayed becomes a dream decayed
And so he fought on
He was a man
That understood
Untended and unintended
Neglect is the weed that strangles hope
In a garden of fragile seed
He was a man
The last of three, everyone said
But it was he who remembered one night
The one not here
The one -
Who had gone before in what they called the last good war
I never knew him, only of him, like most who passed the flag draped coffin
And when I asked
The villagers were divided
Some said, sinner
Some said, saint
But an old Tar said it best,
"When I navigate by stars, eyes on the horizon
My feet, like his, stumble on the stones."
He was a man
No greater, no less, he would say
Than others passed or yet to be
And when I asked, "What should we say?"
The old Tar said it best,
"Square the yards and trim the jib,
Fair winds and following seas, old friend.
Fair Winds and Following Seas."
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