Sitting on a park bench,

o'er looking garden of stone,

I am reminded of my good friend,

Who already left for home.

In the center on the hill,

beyond the tree of ash,

stands a stone memorial,

with lamenting angel, worn like a sash.

I wonder at the craftsman,

I wonder at the grief,

my good friend has gone home,

our parting will be but brief.

I have not the answer,

to how or why or when,

I only know that Horace,

was and is my good friend.

Ah Horace, I miss you,

our morning coffee brews,

cool breeze from the water,

reminds me of you.

But, still I sit here staring,

into the garden stones,

I see someone kneeling,

placing flowers all alone.

I wonder if they know,

as I'm sure you did,

that body lain with memory stone,

has not a spirit hid.

I look forward to seeing you again, my old friend.

For my friend Horace whom I loved.

Rest in peace my brother.