By the Avon, there was one,
always known as Stratford son,
who summed the world with liquid tongue.
Wisdom spilled and warmth of wit
keep his words forever young.
The paths he walked today are thronged
by wandering tourists, curious still,
about the story of our Will.
Above his grave,
pointing upward to the sky,
the shadows on the ancient spire
are swept by sunlight after clouds.
I said a prayer to please his soul
and left a sprig of rosemary.
By the river, under trees
through the graves, row on row,
I smiled to see an ‘upstart crow’
sauntering with dignity.
The Dreaming Path 