There was sadness when he passed, and too, relief:

That tortured soul set free from earthly bounds;

His visit to this world, by all counts, brief,

His exit there just shy of fifty rounds.

My mother, still in prime, took matters hard—

Full knowing he by choice was was doomed to be;

With mouths to feed, few means and little lard,

Fate cast her hapless on a savage sea.

She drew her bairn to breast and made her way;

I never knew what fixed her guiding star—

Of love and hope that would not bend or sway,

Gave every measure to outflank the bar.

No truer brace of love have I yet known—

Fair gentle hands that wrung pure life from stone.