Since it was fashioned on the turner’s spinning lathe <br />The old, ash walking-stick has wandered many miles <br />On bracken banks, in frost-glazed fields, by heather moors <br />And waited while I clambered on unsteady stiles. <br /> <br />It has, unpaid, supported me, through thick and thin, <br />A sure companion, much more faithful than those souls <br />Who only paid me homage when Dame Fortune smiled <br />But then like snakes, reneged and crept into their holes. <br /> <br />My silent friend, who never speaks his cold contempt <br />Will be the one that never strays far from my sight <br />And holds me up when other frail supporters fail <br />And helps me when I struggle on in darkest night.<br /><br />C Richard Miles<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/a-faithful-friend-2/
