You with the broken National Health specs
Patched up with sticking plaster.
And your minuscule handwriting
Micrographia it’s called.
In the summer we’d escape through your bedroom window
Onto the flat roof beyond.
And talk there for ages.
But now I shall never see you again.
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Hi Richard,
This little poem touched my heart about the loss of a friend. I could just picture everything you described about your friend.
Gill