Fifty years of violet fire's

ashes gather in his mind;

once a man and twice a child,

dandelions have two lives.

 

When he was Buck, he stoked the guts   

of battle class destroyers,

all brawn and heft and sweat and musk;

a dandy matelot wanderer.

 

Carousing and careening girls,

forget-me-nots around the world,

action stations, ocean waves,

60 feet or more.

 

Then love lettered indigo travelled on its way;

became a band of gold and plans

to settle down, to stay,

were made on land in hope and glory.

 

To Civvy Street, to factories,

to children counting 1 2 3,

to tender jam jar harmonies

played out on kitchen floors.

 

In early light with pennies tight,

they'd spend the time together.                                                                                           

He’d take her up a cup and kisses,

never thinking days would dim

or clocks would stop for one.

 

Fifty years of violet fire's

ashes gather in his mind;

once a man and twice a child,

dandelions have no wives.