THE FATHER FRIEND
He was old…white hair
blowing in the wind…
Old…and thin…and
lined.
He was strong…though
tired from battle…
Noble…true…pure of
mind.
Two men faced there
in the mud…
Snow blowing round
each head.
They looked into each
other’s eyes
As words were softly
said.
And…as this scene was
acted…
By men of great,
great gift,
Their minds and souls
connected,
Their kindred hearts
to lift.
A bond was forged in
In the forest…in the
snow…
As Maximus loved
Marcus
So the actors came to
know
A bond of the same
texture…
A mix of friend and
son
That comes upon the
meeting
Of such a kindred
one.
And when, from half a
world away,
The news that one had
died
Came hurtling hard to
Russell,
He turned aside and
cried.
For, no matter what
the distance,
His loving heart was
true,
So halfway round the
world
The grieving
son/friend flew.
Marcus said, “You are
the son
I really should have
had.”
And Richard, too,
said, “Russell,
I love you like your
Dad.”
Each one knew the
other
Was cut from cloth
alike;
And each one saw life’s
journey
As somewhat of a
hike.
But when they were
together,
It was easy, it was
good…
That common
understanding
Made life’s flow go
like it should.
Maximus had said
good-bye,
Whispering, “Father”
like a breath…
So Russell came to
Londontown
At the news of
Richard’s death.
For Father/friends
are rare, indeed,
And the loss cut hard
and deep.
Generals and Oscar
folk
Are both allowed to weep.
JO ANZALONE