The house is old now,
Once it was quite new,
As were we, so long ago
When our eyes had met,
For the very first time,
Then of course, there came the books,
Robin Cook was one of your favourites,
I was a Tolkien man myself,
But we both had a thing for stories,
And we'd write ours on paper
And scatter them about,
For the other to find,
And that's how it was, until today,
When I wrote the last story,
The one where I saw your ashes drift away
Drawn by the current,
And looking up, saw you smiling down on me.
The books that I keep by my bed,
Are full of our stories,
And in them, you still live,
And return, now and again,
To haunt me in my sweetest nightmares
The Bilge Master
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