The flag that hung half-mast today <br />Seemed animate with being <br />As if it knew for who it flew <br />And will no more be seeing. <br /> <br />He loved each corner of the links- <br />The stream at the eleventh, <br />The grey-green bents, the pale sea-pinks, <br />The prospect from the seventh; <br /> <br />To the ninth tee the uphill climb, <br />A grass and sandy stairway, <br />And at the top the scent of thyme <br />And long extent of fairway. <br /> <br />He knew how on a summer day <br />The sea's deep blue grew deeper, <br />How evening shadows over Bray <br />Made that round hill look steeper. <br /> <br />He knew the ocean mists that rose <br />And seemed for ever staying, <br />When moaned the foghorn from Trevose <br />And nobody was playing; <br /> <br />The flip of cards on winter eves, <br />The whisky and the scoring, <br />As trees outside were stripped of leaves <br />And heavy seas were roaring. <br /> <br />He died when early April light <br />Showed red his garden sally <br />And under pale green spears glowed white <br />His lilies of the valley; <br /> <br />The garden where he used to stand <br />And where the robin waited <br />To fly and perch upon his hand <br />And feed till it was sated. <br /> <br />The Times would never have the space <br />For Ned's discreet achievements; <br />The public prints are not the place <br />For intimate bereavements. <br /> <br />A gentle guest, a willing host, <br />Affection deeply planted - <br />It's strange that those we miss the most <br />Are those we take for granted.<br /><br />John Betjeman<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-hon-sec/
