RED ROVER
He had red hair, a shaggy beard to match,
Over his left eye he wore a black patch,
Tall and thin, he stood straight as a die,
He always waved as he passed us by.

Red Rover we called him, his real name
No one knew, or from where he came,
Outside under the stars he’d rest all year
Even in winter, of cold he had no fear.

He seemed to me neither young nor old,
Weather with accuracy he always foretold,
Knew every bush, tree and flower that grew,
Many birds by their song and name he knew.

As a child I’d walk by his side many a mile,
He would tell tales that always made me smile,
I would be sad when I had to turn to go home,
How I longed with Red Rover to freely roam.

Often he wandered through our small town,
He was always smiling, never wearing a frown,
One day while walking he told me with a sigh,
“I want to be buried here when at last I die.”

I was married by the time he passed away,
And hundreds were at the funeral that day,
In his wallet was a note written just for me,
I opened the piece of paper most carefully.

“Keep that wanderlust running quite free,
But don’t let it take over like it did with me,
I have no kin, no children to carry my name,
Please dear friend don’t you do the same.”

Then I looked at the bottom of the page
There was his name in full and his age,
“Let them write, Red Rover lies resting here,
Please keep my name and age secret my dear.

(Millicent) Ann Margetson January 6, 2004