Poul Anderson Is Gone
by Jim M. Pierce
A voice is stilled,
one many of us have known
for many a year.
Poul Anderson is gone.
In a dream,
I dreamt of a Viking Ship,
its black sail furled,
making its way up a fjord
at funeral marching speed.
No orders given
that the living can hear
to the crew of that ship.
Its silent oars cleaving the dark blue waters,
silently,
but for the occasional drip
as the water returns
to that fjord.
An Honor Guard
of Valkyries overhead.
The brighter planets,
glowing just there
in the near sunset.
As the day fades,
a new star among them,
for Poul Anderson is gone.
The Northern Winds are silent.
The great Northern trees
do not rustle or bend,
for the winds are silent,
for Poul Anderson is gone.
No one sits there
at the oars
visible to human eyes,
but they must be there,
Viking Warriors of olde,
come to pay homage,
for Poul Anderson is gone.
His voice is stilled,
he will write no more.
A small breeze
comes in from Bifrost Bridge.
It stirs the trees,
even Ygdrasil.
It carries a small voice,
and the voice doth whisper,
"Poul Anderson is dead."
The Viking Ship leaves the fjord,
an Honor Guard
of Valkyries overhead.
A distant horn calls to the ship,
"We knew him for a short while",
for Poul Anderson is gone.
© 2001 Jim M. Pierce
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