About the Poem
This poem is about a clean living man, who was a paramedic, taken away too early.
This is dedicated to Tommy, a Paramedic, who died aged 61, too young.
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Seventh Of December
|by William Bough|
The house is full, but empty and cold,
He died today, not very old,
The family gathered, sat by the bed,
Soothed the moans, stroked his head.
Didn’t drink, nor did he smoke,
Dying of cancer, ironic, sick joke,
As the time drew near, he wasn’t there,
The ones ‘round the bed, left to care.
Breathing labored, struggling, long,
Small and weak, when once was so strong,
A life helping others, answering the call,
And a lump in the gut puts an end to it all.
He draws one last breath, now lying still,
Disbelief ‘round the bed, all eyes start to fill,
Silence, despair, empty looks, then a cry,
Knew he was ill, can’t believe he would die.
Although he is gone, he is still here,
Feel his presence in moments of fear,
Strong but gentle, sometimes strict, always kind,
If I follow the example, I know he won’t mind,
For he was a good man, with heart of gold,
But he died today, not very old.