Bruce Dawe 15 February 1930 – 1 April 2020
Thank you for being here,
thank you for being you,
thank you for demonstrating
that great poetry can come from a veggie patch,
or the roar of a football crowd.
there appears a resigned peace,
as if poetry had finally let him rest,
his last poem whispered in his last breath.
looking out at life from his room of death,
watching tourists walk by without a thought
that once, here, lay John Keats, poet.
or worse, a life of wasted days,
but what a beautiful death if you can say
you did what you needed to do,
and said what you needed to say.