Note to readers: I’d like to call this Elegy, but only if it plants doubt rather than certainty that the subject is dead. Anyone want to weigh in?
At the reservoir,
Fishing pole in hand,
I tell a story to the wind you’ll never hear.
To know is to know is to know –
We could have argued that
All afternoon over coffee and tea,
But the distance between
Is words and stories and seas.
I tell a story to the wind you’ll never hear.
Words Like Me 
Greetings from Chester, UK. I enjoyed reading your poem.Thank you. Love love, Andrew. Bye.
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Very relatable. From a well practiced fisherman.
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