In memory of William Gilkerson Rippey (30. 5. 1876 - 3, 6, 1932)

I hear you calling from Winchester;

Your face is distant

And your breath is cold.

You speak of when

The grass was tall

And the Kentucky sun

Sweet to your eyes.

A Golden retriever

Raced your boots

And your scent wrapped

The native road.

And you understood it all –

How far the wind travelled

And how it unravelled,

The Mountain Saddle you rode.

And it didn’t matter,

It didn’t matter at all

How soiled you were

When you and the evening

Returned to your home.

The bath was always ready

And her sleeves

Perfectly rolled.

In her arms

You were eternal

And even your soapsuds

Rippled into gold.

I hear you calling from Winchester.