The Hon Sec

The flag that hung half-mast

Seemed animate with

As if it knew for who it

And will no more be seeing.

He loved each corner of the links-The stream at the eleventh,

The grey-green bents, the pale sea-pinks,

The prospect from the seventh;

To the ninth tee the uphill climb,

A grass and sandy stairway,

And at the top the scent of

And long extent of fairway.

He knew how on a summer

The sea's deep blue grew deeper,

How evening shadows over

Made that round hill look steeper.

He knew the ocean mists that

And seemed for ever staying,

When moaned the foghorn from

And nobody was playing;

The flip of cards on winter eves,

The whisky and the scoring,

As trees outside were stripped of

And heavy seas were roaring.

He died when early April

Showed red his garden

And under pale green spears glowed

His lilies of the valley;

The garden where he used to

And where the robin

To fly and perch upon his

And feed till it was sated.

The Times would never have the

For Ned's discreet achievements;

The public prints are not the

For intimate bereavements.

A gentle guest, a willing host,

Affection deeply planted -It's strange that those we miss the

Are those we take for granted.