The chance gifts of friendship are like milestones
Of content in life’s fleeting walkabout;
And all the more welcome to tired bones,
When they give warmth and never cause for doubt
Such is to me that darling Flicky Mead,
The elegantly cheerful mother earth,
Whose gentle smile and optimistic creed
Touched all -and me- with happiness and worth
The Dame of Prospect with the common touch
Had one last gift to share with all she knew,
In how to leave the one’s you love so much
By facing up to what’s in front of you
So why could we yet think her time has run?
In us live all the genes of what she’s done!